


The Brickyard

by DChan87



Category: IndyCar RPF, Original Work
Genre: Auto Racing, Butch/Femme, Canon Lesbian Character, Chicago (City), Disney References, Drama, Dramedy, F/F, F/M, Gen, Humor, Indianapolis, Interracial Relationship, Lesbian Character, Multi, New Adult Fiction, Not RPF, Original Fiction, Racing, Sexual Humor, Team as Family, Teasing, butch lesbian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24297424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DChan87/pseuds/DChan87
Summary: Kathrin Mueller and Kevin Disney are drivers in the IndyCar series... and they do not like each other. Their rivalry, which comes right around the time of the Indianapolis 500, will define their auto racing careers. M/F and F/F content. Originally started in 2015, some of the writing is pretty bleh at times early on.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue

Rivals: Prologue

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Good luck, Kathrin!"

"Thank you so much!"

"You're the best, Kathrin!"

"I appreciate it!"

"Do your best, Müller!"

"I'll try!"

Kathrin Müller could not contain her excitement or her smile. Her father always told her to never show such emotions, although that could be chocked up to concern towards his daughter after they moved back to Germany from spending her early years in the United States. But how could she not be excited for such an occasion, modesty be damned?

"Müller," a boy walked up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. "Please be careful."

"I will, Ingo," she replied. The young man patted her on the shoulder and walked back over to his desk, right near the window. Kathrin sat back in hers, gripping her knee-length skirt with anticipation. She couldn't wait for the week to be over with. She wanted to graduate high school right now.

The day could not go fast enough for the 18-year-old. The teachers' constant droning put her to sleep several times. She could almost imagine herself in her new duty. She roared down the track in her car, passing the losers by and crossing the start/finish line for the victory. No, she is not going to become a teen idol.

She was going to be a race car driver.

"Müller! Pay attention!" her teacher caught her dozing off and she bolted upright and looked straight forward. The other students laughed at her and she blushed in her embarrassment.

To the right of her, another girl giggled but not mockingly like the others. It was enough to make Kathrin smile, reassured. She turned back to the chalkboard while her teacher droned on and on about the Pythagorean Theorem. She would let her team deal with the math.

Around lunch time, she took out her bento box to eat, but that had to wait. A crowd of students, including first-years, rushed into the classroom to get a glimpse of their new celebrity. She actually enjoyed the attention. Even she couldn't believe how she was able to be signed to a major German Formula 3 team at only 18. One would have thought that'd she'd just won the Monaco or German Grand Prix. But she hadn't.

The best part was that she had an opportunity to race in the biggest race in the world, the Indianapolis 500. How could she not be giddy? She nervously brushed some of her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear

"So, do they turn right and left at Indianapolis?" asked one of her classmates.

"No, not in the Indianapolis 500," she replied, "It's left-turn only. It's two-and-a-half mile track with four corners and four straightaways, and it's shaped like a rectangle. But there is a road course in the infield."

"Oh, I did not know that," her classmate said.

"Are you sure you're going there?" asked another classmate.

"To be honest, it's not guaranteed yet," she said, scratching her cheek, "But my mom is talking to some teams who might be able to get me a ride in IndyCar."

"What about your boyfriend?"

"Oh, that's right! Thomas!" Her boyfriend Thomas would no doubt be excited to hear about this… at least that's what everyone would think. In her haste, she stood up rather quickly. But she stood in front of everyone for a moment. "I must apologize, everyone," she said excitedly. "But I must tell my boyfriend about this!"

The crowd acknowledged her request and she ran out of the classroom.

Voices of other students echoed through halls while she looked for her boyfriend's classroom. They were all voices of encouragement; for her to do her best and to win every single race she ran. She wasn't sure about the latter, but the former was definitely something she was going to do.

Her boyfriend was sitting in his classroom looking out the window. Kathrin talked to a person at the entrance and waited. Her boyfriend sighed while he stood and walked back to the doorway.

"What do you want?" he asked in a rather hostile tone.

"I need to talk to you," she replied, "Can we talk on the roof?"

Her boyfriend sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "Sure," he said.

They were outside the school a few minutes later. Kathrin watcher her boyfriend while he stared out over the cityscape of Frankfurt. Thomas looked between the city and Kathrin every now and then, not even trying to end the awkward silence that had fallen between them. "I think I know what you're here to do," he finally said.

She didn't say anything. She just stood and stared at him stone-faced, aware of the meaning behind his words. "Yes," she replied.

"I take it it's not just your racing career," he said. He scoffed. "I never liked that to begin with."

"Too bad," she replied, "I'm going to enter the German Formula Three Championship before I go to the IndyCar series."

He scoffed again. "You couldn't go to NASCAR or F1? Pathetic."

"Please stop being dismissive," she said. "I wanted to race at Indianapolis since I was little. This is my big chance."

"Sure," he said, "But don't keep beating around the bush. I know the other reason for this."

She didn't say anything at all. But she knew what he meant. "I did not want to be some accessory to you," he continued, "If you wanted to hide it, you should have picked a better fake boyfriend."

"As I recall, you agreed enthusiastically," she replied.

"I was lying," he replied.

"Either way, we have to end this," she replied, "My career—"

"Everything is about you!" he interrupted, "What about me?"

"I'm thinking about you!" Kathrin replied, "Why do you think I'm ending this?"

"Because you're selfish," he said, "All you talk about is yourself when you're around me." He brushed some of his short brown hair out of his eyes while he glared at her. "Besides, you haven't even signed an IndyCar contract yet. You're a liar."

"And you're a _dummkopf_ ," she replied.

"Is that the best you can do, Kathrin?" he replied, "What makes you think you can actually win? Another woman already tried and she's failed miserably each and every time. What makes you different?"

"I'm good," she growled.

"No, you're not," he replied, "You're a talentless, hard-headed, no-good bi—" She punched his left cheek before he could even finish his sentence. She looked down at him on the ground, her fist and teeth clenched in fury.

"If you felt that way about me the whole time, then you should've come out and said it at the beginning!"

"And you should've have come out of the closet before you started dating me, you _kesser Vater_!"

"FUCK YOU!" She kicked him in his jaw and stormed off to get back to class before the 20-minute break ended.

She didn't talk to anyone for the rest of the day. Because of this, no one really knew why she was in such a poor mood when she should not be. But they couldn't get anywhere near her. Part of the reason was a scowl so intimidating that it not only confirmed the stereotypical "serious" German to foreigners, but would intimidate a Bundeswehr commander.

A boy tried to walk up to her close to the end of the school day. He tried to speak to her, but she snapped her head towards him. The look she gave him nearly traumatized the poor guy.

And when the day ended, she packed up her bag and stormed out of the school. No one was really sure what was going on, but seeing her push Thomas out of the way was a good and clear indication that something had gone on between the two.

Another girl followed Kathrin as soon as she saw her leaving.

" _Dummkopf_ ," Kathrin growled while she walked the streets heading home. She kicked the ground, scattering some rocks about. "I'll show him! I'll show everyone!"

"Kathrin!"

Kathrin's head perked up and she turned around. There was another girl, around her age, but smaller and prettier looking coming her way.

"Annie?"

Annie Krieger ran up to Kathrin and stopped, panting heavily. "Kathrin, you're a fast walker!" she said.

"Sorry," Kathrin laughed. "What is it?"

"That's what I wanted to ask you!" Annie replied. Annie as a bit petite and had a sort of slender face about her. Her curly dark blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail that had slipped off her shoulder. Green eyes looked up at Kathrin in a pondering way.

Unlike Kathrin, who, under that long turtleneck, had an athletic but slender build, which helped her fit into the small cockpits of open-wheeled racecars. She had a face that was slender just like Annie's but had a subtly tomboyish look to it. Had she not had long brown hair, it would have been less subtle. And Kathrin's brown eyes looked at Annie's green ones.

Those green eyes bore into Kathrin's being, She couldn't bear being dishonest with this girl for some reason. No, wait, there was a reason.

She was her best friend.

"It's Thomas," she said, "He insulted me in so many ways I don't even want to repeat one of them. But he said I was talentless." She rubbed her face, her fair skin turning red in shame, embarrassment and anger.

She felt a soft hand on her shoulder. She removed her hand to see Annie smiling at her.

"He's a _dummkopf,_ " she said.

Kathrin snorted and broke into laughter. " _Mein Gott_ ," she said, "I forgot how spontaneous you can be."

"What's that supposed to mean!?" Annie accused, tapping her friend on her shoulder.

"Sorry," said Kathrin, "But I needed a laugh."

"Oh." Annie paused and laughed again. Now both of them were laughing and Annie wrapped her arms around Kathrin and the (slightly) taller girl did the same. "Fuck him," she said. "And fuck your haters."

"Thanks, Annie," said Kathrin. "By the way, how is your mom doing? I need more of her pretzels…"

:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Kathrin's new Formula 3 team had a garage outside of Frankfurt in a nice suburb. Her mother drove her to the garage and waited in the entrance while Kathrin walked in to see her new car. Kathrin's eyes were emotionless, but steel-eyed as she walked in. She knew this was a temporary ride, but she wanted to see how it looked, nonetheless.

It was a good car, and she could tell from looking at it. She walked up to it, eyeing its blue-and-white livery, her sponsor plastered on the front of the nose. "How does it look, Kathrin?" asked an engineer.

She didn't say anything, but she kept examining the car closely, tracing the decals and lines of paint on the chassis and side pods. Her mouth, which was straight as a line at first, began to curve ever-so-subtle and gradually. It looked like a fantastic machine.

"Do you like it?" asked the man who would be her crew chief, a slightly athletic, middle-aged man with a small bald spot in his dark hair by the name of Hans Gunther.

"I love it," she said. For an obviously temporary ride, it had already grown on her.

"I'm glad you do," said Hans, "But why IndyCar? Why not F1?"

"Have you seen IndyCar?" she asked. She turned to him and gave him a smile with a competitive fire burning in her eyes, "I have. And the racing is the best I've ever seen. F1 doesn't even come close to how good the racing is over there."

Hans shrugged, clearly not caring what his driver thought. "If that's the case, then the best of luck," he said. "Now why don't you get a helmet on and climb in?"

"Gladly," she said. A crewmember handed a helmet and HANS device to her. She strapped the HANS device on, but was having some apparent trouble with her hair, trying to stuff it into the helmet. The expression on her face told them everything.

When she finally got the helmet on, she attached it to the device and climbed into the cockpit. It may not have been built for it, but she felt nice and snug in her seat. It was just the perfect thing to prepare for IndyCar.

She pressed and played around with the buttons on the steering wheel. She had to memorize each button while she was getting ready. After all, preparation is vital, _especially_ in motorsport.

She was done and lifted herself out of the ca, tearing her helmet off as quickly—but safely—as possible. A crewmember removed the HANS device while she shook out her hair.

"How does it feel?" asked the human Hans.

"I can't wait to drive it," she said with a smile. "Ugh, my hair is so annoying!"

"Are you alright?" asked another crewmember, "Because you look unhappy."

"It's nothing," she replied, an obvious lie. Her crewmembers did not say anything, but the expressions on their faces were loud enough. "What?" she asked when she saw this.

"Something's wrong," said Hans, "It's written all over your face."

"I'm fine!" she said.

"It's Thomas, isn't it?" asked Hans.

"That bastard said I had no talent!" she snapped.

"I knew it," said Hans. "You are going to have to let that go if you are going to be successful, you know."

"He insulted me!" Kathrin replied.

"Then turn it into fuel!" said Hans, "Prove him wrong!"

Kathrin was about to respond, but she actually thought about his words.

And he was right.

"Well?" asked Hans.

"Thank you Hans," she said, "But I think I need a haircut.

"Whatever you need," said Hans.

"Just you watch," she said, "I'm going to get that IndyCar ride!"

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

End chapter


	2. Four Years Later

_Four years later_

Kathrin had still not gone to the IndyCar series.

Instead, she was still languishing—in her mind, at least—in the Formula 2 series.

You wouldn't know that watching her light up the track at Monza, Italy, however. Her car weaved through the slower competition, making them all look like morons. In a black-and-white livery not unlike her country's national football team, the #14 looked like a blur on the track, even more than race cars usually do.

Given that the Bahrain International Circuit is one of the most technical road courses in the world, this is more surprising. But for Kathrin, it didn't really matter. She had her focus on the checkered flag. She'd already lapped a good deal of the competition by now, and was coming up on the 20th place car on the track.

But with 2 laps to go, she was not going to put the entire field a lap down, even as she passed the car in front of her at turns 14 and 15. The race was almost over, but for Kathrin, it was long over by now.

" _Be patient, Kathrin_ ," a voice crackled through her in-helmet radio, the voice belonging to Hans Gunther.

She didn't listen as well as she should have. She positioned her car behind the 20th place car entering the final two turns on the circuit. She tapped the car in front of her gently, causing it to wobble slightly at high speeds. The other driver managed to save the car going into turn 7, and Kathrin could hear Hans groaning on the other end.

" _What did I say_!?" he growled.

Kathrin ignored him and maneuvered her car around the car in front, slipping past him to put him another lap down. The car moved to the inside of those final turns, starting out tight but getting lighter as it turned towards the front stretch. Now she had an open track and moved past the car. With time running down , the official waved the white flag as time had already run out. She smirked under her helmet, satisfied with the race. " _Final lap_ ," said Hans's voice.

She gently maneuvered through the first two turns, a sharp right-hander and quick left-hander, and pressed down on the throttle to speed up the long straightaway between turns three and four. She was essentially on cruise control by now, as the second-place car was well behind, about with about a 7-second deficit between her car and the second-place car. There was a temptation to just slow down and coast to the finish line.

But instead, she pressed down on the pedal and went faster. Oh, she did slowdown in the chicanes, but she just wanted to get this race over with as soon as possible.

She checked the RPM on her steering wheel, and smiled seeing that she was still in the safe zone.

But she still didn't feel any satisfaction knowing that the race was almost over. She should have, but...

After maneuvering the tricky and technicaly seqments, including the back straight, she turned onto the final straight between turns 13 and 14.. Now she could slow down, since there was no possible or conceivable way for the second-place car to catch her. She turned through the last two turnsand onto the front stretch as the checkered flag waved in the air.

She'd won.

But it was the usual, dominating win she'd raced so often in Germany and around Europe. And it was getting tiring.

" _Good work, Kathrin_ ," Hans said over the in-helmet radio, " _Another excellent win. I can already tell this season will be a great one_."

"Of course," said Kathrin.

After driving around the course, she pulled into pit lane. Her crewmen gathered around the car while she stopped it and got out. She did the expected 'raise your arms in celebration' victory celebration, but her crewmembers knew this was not the case.

As she removed her helmet, it could be seen how much she had changed. First, she was older. That was obvious. The other change was her hair. It was short, almost boyish, which gave her a sort of androgynous appearance, but feminine enough for anyone to know she was female. She also had a couple of earrings, but that's not important.

A EuroSport reporter walked up to her and wrapped her arm around Kathrin's shoulder to get her attention. "Kathrin Müller, with another dominant and typically efficiently German victory here in Bahrain, Kathrin, how do you feel about that win?"

Interview instincts kicked in and she answered, "It was a good win. I thought the team was at their best and this car performed supremely well."

"I know you're focused on a potential IndyCar ride, but given that this is the first weekend of the season, what are your plans for this season?"

She clenched her first ever-so-gently at the reminder of her IndyCar failures, but she recomposed herself. "We're just going to focus on the next race," she said, "We have some long-term plans, but until then, we're just going to take it a week at a time."

"Kathrin Müller, thank you for your time."

" _Bitte_ ," Kathrin replied.

She felt another person wrap their arm around her shoulder, but this was familiar. It was Hans, and he dragged her away from the reporter. "I wouldn't call that efficient," he said, "Considering you bumped that one car."

"I wanted him out of the way," said Kathrin.

"Then pass him," said Hans, "This is not NASCAR."

"I understand," she replied.

"Just get to the podium," said Hans, "We'll leave after that."

The podium ceremony went by a little fast, but that was okay with Kathrin. The usual happened; she was presented with the winner's trophy, they played the German anthem for both the driver and constructor and a champagne shower ensued. After a press conference that took too long, Kathrin was finally ready to leave the track and head back to Bavaria, where her team's new headquarters was located.

Hans met her in the garage area. The car had already been loaded into the hauler to go to Munich. "Are you feeling better?" he asked.

"A little," she replied while unzipping the top of her racing suit. "I'm tired. I can't wait to get back to Munich."

"Agreed," said Hans. "It must be frustrating having an American visa and not being able to use it."

"Please be quiet Hans, I don't want to be mocked." Hans shrugged and walked away to a waiting car.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

She woke up the next morning in her Munich apartment after arriving late that evening. She went about her morning routine—a shower, breakfast and a yoga session all before 10:00 before brushing her teeth and getting dressed and sat down on her couch to relax. It was a Monday, and she did not have to come in today.

Or so she thought.

While watching the news on ARD, her cell phone began to ring. " _Hallo_?" she asked, answering the phone.

" _Kathrin! Where are you, you need to get to the shop right now_!"

"Hans?" she asked, "Why?"

" _I will explain later, but if you do not come in, I will come over there and get you myself_!"

"Okay!" she said in English, unhappy about this sudden development. Hans usually didn't call her in so suddenly like this and so angrily. And why didn't he tell her what he wanted? It would have made things a lot easier for her.

She picked up her motorcycle keys, jacket and helmet and walked out to her motorcycle, which was waiting for her. The motorcycle purred like a lion when she revved it up and rode it out of her apartment complex in the Schwabing borough of Munich. Sure, she missed Frankfurt and Munich was a bit foreign for this Hessian woman, but she liked it, nonetheless. Those Bayern fans could go to hell, though.

She rode through the streets to get to her team's race shop on the outer edges of the city. She rode up to the shop and parked her bike near the entrance.

Now her heart was pounding. Thoughts about what Hans might be talking about were filling her head. Had he talked to an F1 team? F1 wasn't her first choice, but still, it's F1! Just to have a chance to drive in the series was a big opportunity... even if she thought F1 was a joke that was so over-bloated and dying a slow, much-needed death, what with its horrible racing and all.

And NASCAR? Pffft! She wanted nothing to do with that series. Touring Cars maybe, but NASCAR was not an option.

" _Guten morgen_ , Kathrin," the receptionist said when she entered the race shop.

" _Guten morgen_ ," she replied. She turned to the front and saw Hans with his arms out wide and a bewildered look on his face.

"I wanted you here as soon as possible!" he said, "Come on, we're going to be late!" He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her along while she struggled to pull away.

"Late for what!?" Kathrin asked, trying to understand what was going on.

"Not now!" Hans replied. He pushed her into a conference room and shut the door. There were threew men in the room looking over a document, including her team president. Said team president, Klaus Großkreutz, looked up from the table.

"Kathrin, what took you so long?" he asked.

"Hans never told me anything!" she replied, "And he's still not telling me anything!"

"Kathrin, please, calm down," said Mr. Großkreutz, "I'm sure there's a reason he did it." He stood and brought her over to the table. " _Herr_ Richardson, _Herr_ Klinsmann, this is our driver, Kathrin Müller. Kathrin, this is Paul Richardson, an executive with IndyCar."

"Ms. Müller, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said in English while extending his hand and smiling.

Kathrin could not believe what she'd just heard. "Come again?" she asked in English.

"Mr. Richardson is involved in competition in IndyCar," said Mr. Großkreutz, "And he has heard a lot about you."

"I understand you want to race in IndyCar, correct?" asked Mr. Richardson.

"Yes, I do," said Kathrin.

"Why don't you sit down, Kathrin?" asked Hans. Kathrin nodded and sat down next to Mr. Großkreutz and Mr. Richardson sat down at his previous seat across from him.

"We've been talking with Mr. Großkreutz and we're very impressed with your skills," said Mr. Richardson, "And we keep hearing you have a sort of German efficiency while driving." Kathrin turned and glared at Hans, who shrugged. "That's why we're excited to have you enter the series."

"... What?" she asked with a sort of dull surprise.

"Your team has been given an opportunity to race at the Grand Prix of Indianapolis and the Indy 500," said Mr. Richardson, "Everything's been taken care of, we just need you to sign the contract."

"... WHY WAS I NOT TOLD ABOUT THIS SOONER!?" Kathrin screamed at Herr Großkreutz, "HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING THIS A SECRET FROM ME!?"

"We wanted to surprise you," said Hans, "I'm sorry—"

"That. Is not. Enough," She said through gritted teeth. "When did this happen?"

"Last year," said Hans. "We have a race shop in Indianapolis, you have been entered as our driver, and you will need to take part in the rookie orientation in early May."

"But you should have told me!" Kathrin replied.

"You have your visa!"

Kathrin was so infuriated she rubbed her face in her hands and screamed. "My team is full of idiots," she said. "Why did we not start the season in IndyCar?"

"We were not ready," said Herr Großkreutz, "But they were gracious enough to let us prepare."

"And we're all prepared?" she asked.

"We are now," said Herr Großkreutz, "Except for our sponsor."

"I believe Herr Klinsmann has something to do with it?" she asked.

"Yes," said Herr Großkreutz, "Herr Klinsmann is a representative of the German National Tourist Board, and—are you alright?"

"No," she groaned, "Why the Tourist Board!? Now there will be even more terrible jokes at my expense!"

"They were the only ones we could secure a sponsorship deal with at the last minute!" said Herr Großkreutz, "I wish we could have done better, but other than that, we had no other choice."

" _Mein Gott_ ," Kathrin groaned. "This is a disaster."

"Look, Kathrin," Mr. Richardson said to try and get her to calm down, "We have it taken care of. The team just needs to pay the entrance fee, you'll take part in Rookie Orientation, and we'll let you qualify for the Grand Prix of Indianapolis, as well. You have your visa, right?"

"Yes, I do," she replied.

"Then you can come to America and compete," said Mr. Richardson, "But you can come back, although I have fantastic news."

"What is that?" she asked.

"We will be racing at Nurburgring this summer."

Kathrin jerked her head up from the table and looked at him with eyes wide. "You're joking."

"I am not," he said, "Take a look at our schedule." Kathrin took the schedule and looked it over. Sure enough, there was a date in Germany, at the famous Nurburgring. "We wanted to return to Germany for some time, and we thought this might be a good draw for you."

"Is the contract good?" asked Kathrin.

"We looked it over," said Herr Großkreutz, "And we like it. All you have to do is sign."

"Can I win the championship?" she asked.

Mr. Richardson hissed and sighed. She could already tell she was not going to like this answer. "TO be perfectly and brutally honest, I doubt it," he said, "Not because we won't let you, but because you'll be late into the series and you won't have time to catch up. However, if you compete in every single race next year, I believe you potentially could. But we have a lot of really good drivers, one of whom is Kevin Riley, whom Racer Magazine said might be the one who saves our sport. Personally, I do—"

"You don't have to keep going, I'll sign," she interrupted.

"Oh, then perfect!" said Mr. Richardson. "Although, I would suggest that you read it over with your lawyers again, I'm in no hurry."

"Herr Großkreutz?" asked Kathrin.

"We have read it over multiple times," he replied, "We like it."

"Well, I do want to be sure," said Kathrin, "When do you need it?"

"Preferably by tomorrow," said Mr. Richardson, "I have to get back to Indianapolis and you have to get to America, too."

"Kathrin, I will call in a lawyer," said Herr Großkreutz, "He will look it over just to be sure, but we have negotiated it to make sure it was—"

"I'll sign it!" she interrupted.

" _Wunderbar_!" said Herr Großkreutz, clapping while Kathrin took a pen. She looked over the contract another time, looking for anything she found unsavory before taking pen to paper and signing it.

"Perfect!" said Mr. Richardson. He stood up to shake Kathrin's hand and said with a smile, "I can't wait to see you compete with us."

"Neither can I," she replied. She also shook Mr. Klinsmann's hand.

"We are in the process of finding a crew in America," said Herr Großkreutz, "So you need not worry."

"But I will be going," said Hans.

"Of course," said Herr Großkreutz, "We would not have it any other way."

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Now then, Kathrin, shall we view the livery?" asked Hans.

"Of course," she replied, sitting up on her couch at her apartment. Pictures of IndyCars littered her coffee table, although one was covered up by a beer bottle.

"This is it," he said, showing a computer image of her car, "This is a Dallara DW12, named after 2-time Indy 500 winner Dan Wheldon. Here is the oval and road course set-up." Pointing at both cars, he gestured at the livery. It was mostly white, but there was some black on the side pods and front and back wings, along with streaks of red and gold, the colors of the German flag. Kathrin sighed. "What's wrong?"

"Did we have to be sponsored by the Tourism Board?" she asked, "I look so stereotypical and nationalist."

"This was all we could get at such short notice," said Hans, "And to be honest, do you wonder why everyone thinks you're so stereotypically German? It's because you never smile, you're always frowning and quite frankly, it has to stop."

"Well, how do I look now?" she asked. Hans looked her over.

"Much better," he replied. "Just try to smile more often, even if it's fake. Americans love to see people smile, it makes them more relaxed and easy around strangers."

"I'll try," she replied.

"Now then, let's continue," he said, "The DW12 is the only chassis used in the IndyCar Series, it's what's known as a 'spec series'. In a sense, it makes things more even and fair. Now winning is left in the hands of the driver."

"Unlike Formula 1," said Kathrin.

"If you want to put it that way," he laughed, "Now, I must warn you: The Indianapolis 500 is nothing like what you've done before. To begin, it's on an oval; a two-and-a-half mile, 4 kilometer-long, rectangular oval. The race itself, is also nothing like you've run. Most of the races you've run are about an hour and a half in length. This, however, takes up to three hours. It takes 200 laps to finish all 500 miles, and you're going over 200 miles per hour. It is not a sprint, it is a jog—a long jog. You cannot expect to win if you just focus on the early laps."

"So what am I to do?" she asked, not out of fright, but curiosity.

"The good thing is, it is the Monday before the American Memorial Day holiday," said Hans, "And that is not for over a month. We have time to plan our strategy, depending on how well the car performs."

"And how well I perform?"

"Of course," said Hans. "Now, we will be leaving soon, so you will have to find someone to take care of your apartment. Do you know anyone? What about that older woman you seemed to be friends with?"

Her throat felt tight and she had a hard time swallowing. But she finally said, "She moved to Hamburg."

"Oh," said Hans. "What about that Annie Kreiger girl you knew in Frankfurt?"

"I haven't spoken to her in some time," she replied, "What about your wife and children?"

"Are you asking them to—oh, they know," he said, "But they hope to be in America by the time of the 500. I hope they will, too."

"So do I," she replied. She looked at the picture of one person and her eyebrows furrowed angrily. Hans noticed this and looked at the picture and back to her.

"What is it?" he asked.

"He looks like my ex," she said.

"He does not," said Hans. "Him?" Kathrin nodded. "I believe that is Kevin Disney."

"He just reminded me of my ex-boyfriend," she said.

"What did he do?" asked Hans.

"He was a bastard," she replied. Hans laughed and looked through more photos. He could already tell this was going to be interesting once they got to America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End chapter
> 
> Note: I tried to do some research into IndyCar entrance requirements, but I didn't get very far. I'm pretty much winging it at this point, so sorry if it's inaccurate.


	3. Disney Racing

Kevin Disney, no relation if any to Walt, drove his blue-and-white Indy car with purpose along Long Beach's East Shoreline Drive, the front stretch for the street circuit for the self-titled Grand Prix, crossing the start/finish line on the drive's inverted curve. He checked the display on his steering wheel, reading 175 MPH on the LCD. Looking back up, he could see the roller-coaster-shaped steelwork on the bridge approaching, reminding him that he would have to make a hard left turn onto Aquarium Way. He hit the brakes and downshifted, his fingers dancing on the steering wheel. 

He made the sharp left turn, accelerated on the curved straight between turns 1 & 2\. Beyond the curved straight, he approached the left-right-left chicane around the Aquarium Fountain, which he maneuvered, precisely. His car bumped, a result of driving on public roads that had been closed off for one of the most prestigious races of the season. The blue-and-white number 15 car, sponsored by Old Style beer, reacted to his quick wheel movements, making the turn as smooth as on a newly-polished piece of wooden furniture. He was in second place and in position to win, thanks to the efforts of his pit crew and the fast car they'd had all day.

" _Two to go next time around_ ," said his Skip Boone, his crew chief, in his North Carolina drawl.

"Copy that," he replied.

Another burst of speed, then his right side tires bounced off the hard-right turn 4, another curved straightaway. He kept calm when the car's right side returned to the ground, going to the outside.

" _Don't push it too hard_ ," Boone said over the radio.

"I'm not!"

" _You're faster than Barrichello, you'll catch him._ "

Turning back onto the westbound side of Shoreline Drive, but going east, Kevin groaned. He'd been leading until 5 laps ago. Helio Barrichello of Sao Paulo, Brazil stormed to the lead, his red-and-white Penske car blowing past Kevin on the Shoreline front stretch. That same car was within view, stretching the lead on the straightaways, and contracting in the turns, like the sharp left-hander north onto Pine Avenue. The veteran Barrichello effortlessly made the turn, but so did the young Kevin.

Kevin, 22 years old, was in his third IndyCar season, and already had 3 wins; one win in his rookie season, one last year, and one win this year, at Circuit of the Americas near Austin, Texas this past March. Barrichello, on the other hand, was 39 years old, won an F1 world championship with Ferrari, had been in IndyCar for 11 years, and won 24 races, including last year's Indy 500, and two championships. But Kevin knew a few tricks of his own. His grandfather was 2-time USAC Champ Car champ Jon Disney, and his dad was 2-time CART champion Tom Disney, who co-founded the namesake family team, Disney Racing, with his brother Robert, that Kevin currently drove for.

Making the 90-degree right-handed 8th turn onto Seaside Way, Kevin checked his push-to-passes on the display screen in his steering wheel. He had two. Pressing the OT button, his car received a short turbo boost, propelling it faster, inching the gap between him and Barrichello. Kevin grit his teeth, gripped the steering wheel harder, soaking it with sweat, preparing to make the pass on the inside of turn number 9.

But Barrichello swerved to the right, cutting him off. _SHIT!_ He hit the brakes hard, wasting his push-to-pass.

" _Easy, buddy,_ " Skip warned over the radio. Both cars made the left-handed turn ten, sweeping through the Long Beach Convention Center's parking lot, then slowed hard on the hairpin that returned to Shoreline Drive. Both drivers accelerated along the curved front stretch, as the flagman waved a piece of white cloth in their air.

" _White flag, white flag,_ " Skip said over the radio.

Kevin growled. His heart raced faster than his car, and his palms, already sweating, soaked through his racing gloves. He didn't want to finish second to Barrichello again, but he didn't want to let the Brazilian get to him. 

Turning onto Aquarium Way, he wove the car through the drive and the chicane, the car's right wheels bouncing off the curb, and back onto the road. The same thing happened on the next right-hander, heading north until they made the next right turn onto Shoreline Drive. He sped up again, hoping to catch Barrichello in here, but Barrichello was already through turns 6 and 7 onto Pine. Kevin managed to make the turn as well, accelerated and turned onto East Seaside.

Now he had a choice; he could use the push-to-pass now, and hope to catch Barrichello, or wait to use it on the front stretch. Through good fortune, he found his car in Barrichello's draft/slipstream, inching closer to his veteran rival. _Now I've got you_ , he thought. The push-to-pass would have to wait for now.

Then Barrichello turned, cutting Kevin off of the slipstream, but Kevin was right behind. He turned his helmet, painted in the colors of the Chicago White Sox, along with the car, and as far as the HANS device would let him. Both cars wove through the Convention Center's parking lot, finally reaching turn 11, and--

Barrichello slowed down more than one would be going into a hairpin. Kevin's eyes widened, and he made an excited gasp. _I'VE GOT 'IM!_ he thought. He swung the wheel left, and then right, hoping to get Barrichello on the inside. His heart was racing even faster now, he was going to catch him--

Abruptly, Barrichello's car surged down the front straightaway. Kevin's heart dropped. _No, no, NO! SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!_ Barrichello pulled away. Kevin pressed the OT button, hoping against hope to catch him, but Barrichello crossed the finish line a second ahead of him.

Kevin's vitals came crashing back down to earth and he released a long, drawn-out sigh. "Y _ou did good, buddy,_ " Skip said over the radio. He didn't feel that way. Coming up second to Barrichello was becoming a running gag at this point, despite those six wins. 

The cool-down lap felt both like a blur and dragged on. Going through the motions, he could only replay what had happened over and over again, wondering if there was something he could've done differently. Had Barrichello done that on purpose? It wasn't a dirty move by any means, sure, but that didn't help him feel better one bit.

Slowly, he pulled into the pits and stopped in his pit stall. His crew, arms hanging in defeat, gathered around the car. They wore the same uniform he wore; firesuits with white torsos, blue sleeves, and leggings, the Old Style logo plastered on the front, surrounded by smaller sponsor logos. They helped him undo his safety harness, but he lingered in his seat a little longer, hands on his head, to process the loss. After several long, awful moments he took his hands off his helmet, stood up, and removed his HANS device, helmet, and firehood.

Kevin was a very good-looking young man. His youthful, Irish-ish features, highlighted by brown eyes, were just the tip. And his medium-length hair was cascading on both sides of his head. He had a small, but athletic build. His skin tone wasn't leathery, but creamy, but with some copper tone to it. He stepped out of the car, running his hand through his hair, and leaned against it.

A middle-aged African-American man built like a linebacker walked up and hugged him. "Thanks, Reggie," he said.

"No problem," said Reggie Williams, his gasman.

Kevin pursed and bit his lips, anticipating the inevitable camera crew arriving to rub his loss in, then head to victory lane for the podium ceremony. Right now, Barrichello was probably in victory lane, being interviewed. Then the sounds of cheering erupted over the PA system, meaning Barrichello was in victory lane. As feared, an NBC camera crew ran up to Kevin, waiting for the cue to interview him, and probably rub his loss in a little harder.

" _It looked like you'd faltered right before the finish. What happened?_ "

" _Oh,_ " he laughed, " _Nothing bad. I just wanted to give the fans a show and Disney a chance to catch me._ "

"Fuck," Kevin groaned. Having his suspicions confirmed was not what he wanted. He tuned out the rest of the interview until the person about to interview him had her hand on her headset, waiting for the cue. He kept a neutral expression as she turned to him.

"Kevin Disney, you were--"

_Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it!_

"--So close to passing Barrichello on that final turn, only to have victory snatched away..."

_God... DAMMIT!_

"How do you feel about the race right now?"

She shoved the microphone in his face, and he took a deep breath to answer in a neutral voice. "Well, it's not the result we wanted, especially when it looked like we had a chance. But you know, we had a fast car all day, and this amazing crew put us in a chance to win. It's just bad luck, is all." _It's your biggest rival taunting you because he's an asshole._ "But, we're going to head back to the shop, make some adjustments and get ready for Indy. Luckily, we've got a couple weeks before the IndyCar Grand Prix, so I think we'll have a good car then."

"Kevin Disney, finished second. James?"

The cameraman lifted the camera, and Kevin released the breath he didn't know he was holding. 

At that same time, Skip walked up to Kevin, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Not your fault, Kevin," the crew chief said in his native North Carolina twang. Skip was in his 40s and wore a mustache reminiscent of Dale Earnhardt Sr. Blue eyes and red hair completed his look.

"Of course not," Kevin concurred. 

"Hey," said Reggie. "We'll get 'im next time."

"Mr. Disney!" An IndyCar official called. "We're gonna need you for the podium ceremony!"

"Alright," Kevin called. He stood up and followed the official to victory lane, on the eastern entrance to the pits.

The podium ceremony felt like rubbing the salt in his wound, and to be honest, he really didn't care much. That was because Barrichello grinned at him as they waited for the ceremony to start, saying something along the lines of, "You're a rookie riding daddy's coattails." Again, Kevin wanted to be somewhere else, but he had some media appearances to make before he could leave.

He smiled, dead inside, as he was handed a nice second-place trophy and took what felt like endless photos with different sponsor hats before spraying champagne all over the place. He liked it better when he topped the podium, and he and his crew had sung "Chelsea Dagger", the Blackhawks' goal song.

He went through the motions again in the post-race press conference ("You know, we had a great car," "Our car was fast," "This is an amazing team," "Thanks to our sponsors," etc) until they finally released him like a frustrated retail employee heading home after a long day, leaving the press conference slightly hunched forward, head down and smelling like champagne. Skip waited for him outside, held his arm out, and wrapped it around his shoulder.

"Feeling better?"

"No. I should've won."

"Well, you didn't," said Skip. "It was outta your hands."

"But I--"

"I've told you a thousand times, you ain't entitled to win a race," said Skip, making Kevin roll his eyes like Skip was a parent lecturing their kid on a single subject for the thousandth time. "You know what Aerosmith said, right?"

"Walk this way?"

"No, I ain't walkin' like that. Damn, you made me lose my place. Oh, yeah! 'You've got to lose to know how to win'."

"Losing sucks."

"Tell me about it," said Skip. "Anyway, want to have some dinner?"

"Nah," said Kevin. "Let's just get back to Chi-town.

"By the way, Skip? That's not even the best Aerosmith song."

Taking it in stride, Skip just laughed. "You'll be singing it when you win the 500," he said.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Two weeks later,_

Forty-seven-year-old Tom Disney, no relation to Walt, turned off Sheffield Avenue and onto a leafy, quiet street in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago. His radio, set to US*99, played some good Country tunes while he made another left-hand turn onto a residential street. The street was lined with cars, come of which had already emptied their parking spots to leave for work in the Loop. Tom praised his luck at finding one such spot near his target house. Well, it was across the street from his target house, but it worked, nonetheless. He was not a man who would give up a good parking spot for as silly a reason as that.

When he climbed out, he saw an older woman, close to 60 years old, running by on her morning jog. He stopped and waved, while she ran up to him. "Good morning, Tom!" she said, "I thought you were in North Carolina!"

"Change of plans, Beatrice," said Tom. "I just got in two hours ago."

"Oh, that's wonderful," said Beatrice, "What happened?"

"My team owner gave me the week off," said Tom, "It's alright, the Truck Series has enough old farts like me running around."

"I see," she said. "Are you here to see Kevin?"

"Of course," he replied.

"Oh, that's so wonderful!" said Beatrice. She looked over his car and chuckled. "Did the rental people have any newer cars?"

"Well, I like this one," he said. "I like 'em simple."

"Unlike Kevin," Beatrice said, eyeing a car to the side. Said car was a red-and-blue Ford Mustang.

"Well, Mustangs are powerful cars," said Tom.

"I think he should have learned more from you," said Beatrice.

"That's what I keep telling them," he said, brushing something off the sleeves of his grey T-shirt.

"Well, it was good to see you again, but I have to keep moving," said Beatrice. "So long!

"It was good to see you, too," he replied as Beatrice jogged off.

He looked back at his son's car while stuffing his hands in his jeans. He waited another moment while a car drove past, and after looking both ways, crossed the street over to the side where his son's house was. In the distance, a CTA Red Line train thundered past.

Tom dialed Kevin up but did not get an answer. He scoffed and hung up. He must be asleep. Oh, well. He had an ace up his sleeve.

He pulled a key out of his pocket and walked up to the stoop of the building. He knew which floor Kevin lived on, as these houses had apartments that were pretty much the only thing on the floor.

He ran his hand through his salt-and-peppered gray hair and inserted the key into the door. He was in. He made his way up to the third floor of the building, where his son's condo was. Tom's brown eyes, framed by a weathered face and crow's feet, examined the door. Again, he inserted the key and walked in.

He scoffed and laughed. He may be rich, but it was almost as if Kevin had yet to graduate college, or at least looked like he had a college mentality. His condo was filled with simple stuff, aside from a really nice-looking flatscreen in front of three leather couches, hooked up not only to an Xbox but a PS3 and Switch. There was also a picture of Kevin and now-deceased driver Dan Wheldon above the TV.

Tom shook his head. His skin, while tanned, was not quite weathered with age, and didn't have a leathery look about it, either. He wasn't even 50 yet, after all.

His son's bedroom was next to the kitchen. He walked up and opened it up. He laughed again.

It was just past 10:00 in the morning and Kevin was still sleeping, buried in a nice bedspread that he obviously spent a good deal of race winnings on. Strands of brown hair peeked out from the covers, though. It was like the days when Kevin was still a kid. He'd heard about the Trans-Am race at Laguna Seca he'd just returned from, which he'd won.

"GET UP!" he shouted, grabbing what he thought—correctly—to be his son's shoulder.

"YA!" Kevin screamed while Tom tore his covers off the bed. He laughed when he saw that Kevin was wearing a t-shirt and gym shorts. "Daaaad!" his son whined, "What'd you do that for!?"

"Don't you know what time it is?" asked Tom, "It's ten o'clock! Get up! You're acting like a kid again."

Kevin groaned and it got worse when Tom opened his son's blinds. "Jeez, dad, how'd you get in here?"

"It's called a key," said Tom. "Look at you, Mr. IndyCar stud."

Kevin groaned again and got out of bed. Since he just woke up, he's not exactly a picture of perfection right now.

"When'd you get in?" he asked while he took some clothes out of his dresser.

"Two hours ago," said Tom. "My team owner gave me the week off. Still smarting over Long Beach?"

"Stop reminding me!" said Kevin. "Can you please give me some privacy? I have to take a shower.

"Certainly," said Tom.

Half an hour later, Tom was sitting at the kitchen table while Kevin walked in, combing his hair and walking over to his fridge. "How about some wheat pancakes?" he asked.

"I've already eaten, but sounds good," said Tom. So Kevin got to making pancakes while Tom had a sip of his coffee. "Barrichello had you beat."

Kevin sighed. "I honestly could have caught him," he said.

"That's not what I heard," said Tom. "You've only been in IndyCar for what, 4 years? You're not Al Unser yet, so tone it down."

"Three wins in as many years," said Kevin, "I think the hype is real."

 _There's the Kevin I know_ , he thought. "That may be, but a little humility goes a long way," said Tom. "So, what's on the agenda?"

"My agent sent me a schedule of appearances," Kevin said while pouring some of the batter on to his griddle, "I'll be on Windy City Live tomorrow and on WGN Morning News on Wednesday."

"You're a busy body, aren't you?" asked Tom. "By the way, have you heard of that new driver?"

"You mean the one from Germany?" asked Kevin.

"What do you know about them?"

"I dunno, I think they're supposed to be good, but I don't give a fuck," said Kevin.

"Yeah, you're too busy worried about yourself," said Tom. His tone showed that he was ribbing Kevin's views of himself. "Are you sure you're not worried about that new driver?"

"No!" Kevin laughed while flipping a pancake, "Why should I be? They're probably gonna make some rookie mistake and I'll beat 'em anyway!"

"Confident, aren't we?" asked Tom. "When are you leaving for Indy?"

"Soon," replied Kevin. "Now that I remember, I have to head to the shop today. They're going to talk about the plans. Marcus might even take the rookie test."

"Can I come with?"

Kevin paused and thought about it for a moment. "Sure, why not?"

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Yeah, that COTA race was crazy," Kevin said as they were on their way to Kevin's race team shop. "I think we almost ran out of gas near the end, but we were able to keep it good until the checkered."

"Good move," said Tom, "You need to be careful about the gas you use; can't use it all up early on."

"Pfft! I knew that!" Kevin replied. Again, Tom rolled his eyes and shook his head while rubbing his face.

"How's Reggie doing?" he asked to take the conversation away from him.

"He's doing good," said Kevin, "He'll probably be glad to see you again."

"I can't wait to see him, either," said Tom.

A car had pulled out in front of them and almost collided with another. But Kevin glided through the two cars, much to Tom's discomfort. But Kevin made it look effortless. "I hate it when you do that," he said. Kevin smiled at him arrogantly. Tom cursed how he let his driving skills get to his head. 

"Come on, you're the one who always praised me when I was a kid," Kevin replied, "What happened?"

"Your ego," said Tom. Kevin sighed and turned his eyes back to the road like he should be doing. "By the way, Erin wanted me to pick you up."

"Are you kidding me!?"

"Nope!"

The race team's headquarters and garage were located on Goose Island. The Disney Racing race shop is located next to its sister organization, Disney Automotive, a green automotive tech company founded by the same man who started the race team, Robert Disney, Tom's brother. The headquarters for both are in the Disney Racing shop and are run by the same person, who happens to be Kevin's boss and cousin. A couple of things of note: Disney Racing is the only IndyCar team to be based outside of the Indianapolis area. Second, Disney Racing has NOTHING to do with the Walt Disney Company. If the family members are related, then it's most likely a very distant relation. In that case, the Disney Racing/Automotive group wanted nothing to do with the other Disney, unless the big guys came by and wanted to do some business that was mutually beneficial (and did not require selling the team and company, of course). To be sure, the threat of a lawsuit is minimal, given that both companies are A), headquartered in different states and B) are in completely different industries.

Kevin and Tom parked out back and walked in through the front. The receptionist greeted them happily as they walked in.

"Tom!" A smile bigger than your average person, Reggie walked up to his old friend, arms wide.

"Reggie!" Tom replied, giving the man a hug. "How've you been?"

"Things have been going great," said Reggie Williams.

"How's Marcus?" asked Tom.

"Marcus will take his rookie test this week," Reggie replied with a bigger smile.

"Oh, that's amazing!" said Tom, "Congrats to him! Where's Skip?"

"He's here, he's just busy," Reggie replied, "We're getting the cars ready to ship to Indy, so it might be a little hectic around here. Hi, Kevin."

"Morning, Reg," Kevin replied. "Where's Erin?"

"You mean Ms. Disney?" Reggie asked in a very annoyed tone.

"You know I'll never get used to that," he replied. "What do you expect me to call my cousin except 'Erin'?"

"She's in her office taking care of paperwork," said Reggie. "Just sit tight, Skip should be here soon, and we'll find out when we leave for Indy."

"Fine," Kevin groaned.

"So, what are you doing here, buddy?" Reggie asked Tom, hoping to continue their conversation.

"Ah, my boss gave me the week off," he said, "I guess he thinks there's enough old farts like me in the Truck Series already. A rookie's taking my spot."

Kevin tuned their conversation out and took out his phone for a moment. That changed when he saw another figure entering the shop. " _Bonjour, comment ca va, mes amis?_ "

"Deschamps!" Kevin laughed, standing up and giving the new guy a fist bump. This was Sebastien Deschamps, a Frenchman who drives for Disney. Deschamps, from Les Mans, was about the same size and height as Sean, but was in his mid-20s. His short dark hair reflected the lights in the shop and his green eyes looked around.

"Are they busy?" he asked.

"Yeah, they haven't seen each other in a while," said Kevin. "You want to see everyone else?"

"Of course," said Deschamps. They both walked away from the two old farts who were busy talking about their Aprils so far.

Kevin and Sebastien were surprised to find things were not as busy as they had been told. Their cars sat in their little stalls, surrounded by toolboxes, aero kits, and heavy equipment. There were multiple cars all over the place, mostly back-ups in the assumption that something might happen in practice or qualifying. Kevin's car was blue and white with a few red highlights. The sponsor, Old Style Beer, was plastered on the nose, side pod, and the wing. Sebastien's was mostly white with blue and white highlights and sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon. Since both beers are brewed by the same company, it only made sense for Pabst Brewery to sponsor the same team.

Besides the IndyCars, Kevin's blue-and-white, Disney Automotive-sponsored Trans-Am series Mustang sat idle. Another car, a Daytona Prototype, also with a blue-and-white livery, sat beside the Mustang. The team used this car in the IMSA Weathertech Sportscar Championship, which all three drivers operated because IMSA rules require three drivers per car per race. Each driver takes turns behind the wheel. Some mechanics were working on the cars. Just a couple tune-ups here and there, no big deal. It happened after every race. Sometimes there were little adjustments and repairs to make in the case of damage. Of course, since IndyCar is not NASCAR, bumping and grinding on the track is not recommended. Trans-Am cars are like NASCAR stock cars, and Daytona Prototypes are... hard to describe, but they're not open-wheel, so it's not uncommon for either car to come back with a little damage.

"I didn't know you two were here," Skip walked out of his office towards the two drivers. "Disney, Deschamps."

" _Bonjour_ , Skip," said Deschamps, "Where's Ozzie?"

"He's in his office," said Skip. "And he's busy."

"And you're not?" asked Kevin.

"I'm taking a break," said Skip. "By the way, Erin wanted to discuss some things when we were going to Indy."

"That's why I'm here," said Kevin.

"Is she ready yet?" asked Deschamps.

"You two know her well enough by now to answer that question yourselves," said Skip.

"In other words, she's not," said Kevin.

"Typical," said Deschamps.

"I prefer to be ready on my own term and time, Deschamps," a young woman's voice cut through the garage.

Erin Disney strode up to them, carrying a clipboard in her arms. The three drivers snapped at attention and saluted. Erin rolled her eyes. "Again?" she said. "Put your arms down... at ease." The trio playfully moved into an at ease position, like in the army. "Now, regarding the main topic; we have to depart for Indianapolis today," she continued. "Marcus will have his rookie orientation tomorrow, and that's when the first official practice will be.

"We'll also be expecting some major competition this year, what with that new German team coming in."

"Are they any good?" Tom asked.

"We know that Kathrin Mueller is highly regarded," said Erin. "I forgot which series she's won, but she is definitely a prodigy. She might even be better than Mr. Disney."

"Thanks a lot, chief."

"I expect all of you to be on your best behavior," Erin continued.

"You mean we're not?" Sebastien asked.

"Rumor has it, Kathrin Mueller is a lesbian," said Erin. "Obviously, none of you are going to say anything homophobic, but I'll make sure you regret it if you do."

"Come on, she's not gonna last," said Kevin. "Maybe she'll start the 500 and then go back to Europe."

"I think her coming here's a good thing," said Sebastien. "She could help IndyCar get more popular over there. We could use it, especially since we're better than F1." A round of chuckles rippled through the team.

"That is the attitude we're looking for," said Erin. "As for the rest, it will be the usual for us; we're going to run this race like we always have, although I'll leave strategy up to the drivers and crew chiefs. You know more about racing than I do."

"Then why'd you have Kevin's dad pick him up like he was going to school?" Reggie asked, shit-eating grin on his lips. Kevin rolled his eyes amidst a chorus of snickers.

"Because we're not paying for Kevin's tickets anymore," said Erin.

"Come on, you guys don't trust me?" Kevin whined.

"You got a speeding ticket on the Mag Mile," said Erin.

"I was in a Mustang!"

"That's why," she said. "Sorry we can't afford a chauffeur."

"You can afford one, you just won't hire one," Kevin retorted.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Tom read an issue of Crain's Chicago Business while waiting for Erin outside her office. The article was about Erin teaming up with a local lawyer to start another sports ownership group that had not gotten off the ground just yet. Their first target was the Fire, which he admitted he did not know much about. But he grinned when he read a passage discussing how she wanted to keep her father's business alive.

He heard footsteps approaching and looked up. A young, about Kevin's age, lean black woman strolled up to him, carrying some files and smiling. "Hi, Tom," she said, opening her arms.

"Jasmine! Good to see you!" he said, standing up and hugging her. "I see Reggie's still talking about Marcus."

"Oh my god, dad just won't shut up about him," she laughed, rolling her eyes. "I was like, 'dad, we get it, Marcus won a race', but he was like, 'Can't I be proud of your brother'?"

"Well, what do you expect?" Tom asked. "You should've heard me after Kevin won his first race."

"UGH, I was there!" she groaned, but smiling. "You and my dad really are, to quote a cliched phrase, 'brothers from another mother'."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," said Tom. "I see you're working here, now?"

"Yeah, I'm graduating from DePaul in a couple weeks, actually," she said, smiling proudly.

"Oh, congratulations!" said Tom. "Will you make it to Indy?"

"I should!" said Jasmine. "Oh, I almost forgot. Ms. Disney's ready to see you now."

"Right, sorry I distracted you," Tom laughed.

"Right this way," she said, gesturing. She led him down to the end of the hall, where Erin's office was, the door open. He peeked inside, saw her doing some paperwork. Jasmine knocked, Erin looked up and gestured for Tom to enter. He stepped inside but didn't sit down. She looked up, as if expecting him to sit. Instead, he was looking around the walls. Photos of previous race teams were scatted over the walls but were outnumbered by photos with business and technology figures, awards, certificates, and her U of Chicago diploma.

"You didn't tell me you were just visiting," she said.

"Sorry, forgot to mention that," said Tom.

"The crew just returned from Monterrey last night," she continued.

"The Trans-Am race, I assume."

"Correct," she answered.

"Kevin didn't get enough sleep," Tom continued, "I had to wake him up."

"Good for you," she said. Putting the pen down, she looked up at him. "What do you think of our operation?"

"Do you want my approval?"

"Absolutely not."

"Okay, I think you're running a nice little operation," he said. "Your dad would be proud of you. But I do think you need to lighten up just a little."

"I hope you're not implying anything," she said, looking at him above her glasses.

"Not at all," said Tom. "What I mean is," he pointed at all the paperwork on her desk, "I think you might be overworking yourself."

"Thanks for your concern," she said. "But I can handle it."

Tom was a race car driver, not a business person, so he had no other response except to shrug and drop his hands to the side. "Maybe I should be more worried about Kevin. Taking part in 3 series might be a bit much for him."

"You're a full-time NASCAR driver," she replied. "Glass Houses."

"You got me," Tom laughed. "You know, I do mean it when I say your dad would be proud of you."

"Thanks," she said, smiling.

"Not sure he'd like your demeanor, but I'm not him," Tom continued, making her scowl. She looked older than her real age, 22 years old, because of the way she wore her hair, glasses, and carried herself. When seen in casual clothes, it was assumed she looked her age. Tom knew this to be true, at least to an extent, which was the last time he saw her in a casual getup, getting a selfie taken with Kevin and Jasmine at a high school graduation party. It was also the last time Robert saw all of them together. It was hard to believe just a couple of weeks later, Tom was at his brother's funeral being offered condolences, along with Robert's daughter.

"Thanks, Uncle Tom," she said.

"Is there anything else you need?" Tom asked.

"No," said Erin. "Just some financial problems you're not qualified to handle." Tom nodded and turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned back to her.

"By the way, I overheard complaining I had to pick him up. Are you sure you can't afford a chauffeur?"

Erin grinned, nudged her glasses back against her head, and leaned forward, chin in her hands. "We can afford one," she said.

Tom scoffed a laugh. "Then why'd you tell him you couldn't?"

"I just like messing with him," she answered.

"Like I haven't heard that before," Tom sighed, then exited her office.


	4. Rookie Orientation

Rivals, chapter 3: Rookie Orientation

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The Indianapolis Motor Speedway, or to be specific, the stands, didn’t look impressive on the approached from the east. In fact, they looked like the stands for a football stadium (Which football? American or Association? Yes.) when they finally came into view, emerging from behind the trees lining Little Eagle Creek, which passed under West 16th Street. The first thing Kathrin saw from the van was the Brickyard Crossing clubhouse, then the speedway’s stands off in the distance to the west. Passing the Brickyard Crossing’s car park, the stands seemed to get larger, despite being obscured by a few more trees along the way, and then, before she knew it, the most famous racetrack in the world was in sight.

Despite the unassuming exterior, it was the history of the inside that caused Kathrin’s breath to hitch, her chest tightening. She thought about the names that had raced there; Foyt, Mears, Andretti, Schumacher, Clark, Hill, Unser, Castroneves, Earnhardt, Montoya, etc.

Of all the racetracks in America she’d been to, this had to be the first time she’d been here…

Hans, sitting to her left, chuckled. “Anxious?” he asked.

“Very,” she answered. Her deadpan brevity made him chuckle.

“What’d y’all say?” the driver asked. They’d been speaking German.

“I was just reassuring her,” said Hans.

“So, y’all fans?” the driver asked.

“ _Nein_ ,” Kathrin replied, despite her English fluency. “I’m going to be in the rookie orientation today.”

“Oh, good luck,” said the van driver.

Child-like glee nearly overtook her as the van turned and drove underneath the south short chute, emerging to see the Indianapolis Motor Speedway Hall of Fame and Museum greeting them like it was Emerald City. She was here. She was here at Indianapolis Motor Speedway! He drove north on Hulman Blvd, and turned left on 5th street, before pulling into the parking lot and stopping there. Kathrin jumped out first. It was a chilly mid-morning, and the first thing she noticed was the signature whine of an IndyCar engine zooming past. Her vision began fogging up, and she felt something wet running down her cheeks. It wasn’t until Hans caught her attention that she realized she was crying.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“It’s… so… beautiful…” she sobbed. “I’m actually here!”

“Yes, you are,” said Hans. “Savor the moment, but don’t take too long. We have some work to do, first.”

“Alright,” she sniffed. She felt the papers whack against her stomach. She would have tightened those muscles if she knew he was going to do that, but knew it was in jest. She gathered herself as another car sped past.

The first thing she did was don the lanyard and hard card displaying her entry credentials. The papers she held were other things she needed; residency papers, a copy of her latest physical and psychological examination, a copy of her German birth certificate, her resume, a letter of recommendation from Formula Renault, and copies of her IndyCar and ACCUS-FIA licenses. The organization required a lot of paperwork that needed to be filled out just to race in the series, and she was about to undertake her rookie orientation program. She didn’t need to take her oval certification. IndyCar had let her take the oval orientation at Rockingham Motor Speedway in England.

Then, picking up her race bags, she followed Hans into the garage area. She caught glimpses of teams working on their cars before the first practice session after the orientation program’s completion. Most of these drivers were older than her. Some of them, while they might not look old enough to be her father, must have been as old as Hans. The tightness of excitement changed, becoming tightness of intimidation. Then she felt a reassuring hand on her back. Hans nudged her forward until she was next to him. She sighed, giving him a “thank-you” glance, one he returned.

They found an IndyCar official presiding over the garage area. Excited, Kathrin ran up to the official, surprising him with her suddenness. The official managed to recover from that, though, and straightened himself up as Hans reached Kathrin’s side.

“Are you a competition official?” she asked.

“Uh… yeah,” he answered.

“I have my forms here!” she shoved the paperwork in the official’s face, making him stumble backwards, but catch himself on his left foot, and he recovered.

“Did you already submit your forms to IndyCar?” he asked.

“Yes, we did,” Hans answered.

“Then, you don’t need to do anything else,” said the official. He paused and looked over Kathrin. “Oh, right, you’re taking part in Rookie Orientation.”

“Zat’s right,” Kathrin answered, cringing at herself for sounding so stereotypically German. The official, reading the things Kathrin had given him, didn’t notice her cringing, but Hans snickered a little bit.

The official handed the materials back to Hans. “Alright, just get back to your garage, and maybe find a place to change into your race suit. Competition official should be coming around to explain the procedure.”

“Thank you,” said Hans.

“Thank you,” said Kathrin.

With a nudge, Hans led Kathrin away from the official.

He guided her out of the garage area, confusing her at first, but led her into a parking lot full of buses and motorhomes. Hers was on the south side of the parking lot, in between a typical RV and another bus. The space had plenty of room to pull out the awning and four compartments that extended out from the sides of the bus.

Knowing Kathrin was looking at him, Hans said, “The team already bought this before we arrived. This will be your little ‘home away from home’, as the Americans say.”

Kathrin ran inside, eager to make their purchase worth it.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Kathrin always compared wearing a racing suit to like wearing your favorite pajamas, and a new racing suit was like getting your new favorite set of pajamas. But because her sponsor was the German tourism board, she was nervous that she was going to be wearing the flag for pajamas. Setting her bag down on her bed, she took a deep breath, sighed and quickly opened the bag like ripping off a band-aid. Then, she reached inside and pulled out the racing suit, and what she saw eased her discomfort.

The suit, upon unfolding, unfurling and a full gaze, was modeled on the kits worn by the _Frauen Nationalmannschaft_ , the German women’s soccer team; a white torso and black leggings, and a cute little _Bundesadler_ on the left breast. She’d gone out with a member of the U-20 team, but it didn’t last, not only because their respective schedules conflicted, it just didn’t work out. Unfortunately, _Deutsche Zentrale für Tourismus e.V._ logo, “GERMANY” and the pinwheel with the flag’s colors above it, was written on the stomach/chest. She sighed. Why did she have to advertise her country!? Other drivers didn’t have to advertise their country like this! It’d be like if Lewis Hamilton came to NASCAR and drove a “Visit Great Britain” car or something like that.

But it was too late to re-negotiate any sponsorship now. Well, maybe after the race, but that was in the future. She had to focus on the now.

Quickly, she changed from her street clothes into the new firesuit. As soon as it was fully on, it felt like her new favorite pair of pajamas. But after looking in the mirror, the “GERMANY” and pinwheel logo were quite obnoxious. Apart from that, the design looked great. The Siemens wordmark above the tourism logo was also a relief. Even the white fabric looked fresh. Most importantly, this was as close as she was going to get to playing for the _Frauen Nationalmannschaft_. So, her new favorite pajamas felt great and would look perfect if not for the one hideous design.

She emerged from her bus to find that she had lost Hans. She pulled out her phone. The lock screen had a picture of Haruka/Sailor Uranus from the anime _Sailor Moon_ , and the home screen was a fanart of Haruka in a romantic moment with _Sailor Moon’s_ main/titular character Usagi Tsukino. A friend of hers had drawn it for her. She dialed up Hans and brought the phone to her ear. After three rings, Hans answered.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Hans, where are you?” she asked.

“ _Oh, I apologize. I forgot to tell you I was going back to our garage._ ”

“Which one?” she asked.

“ _Garage number 29, block B._ ”

After some initial difficulty, she arrived. Garage 29 buzzed with the activity of her race team, preparing her car for the first official step on her journey to the Indianapolis 500. The view of the car itself was obscured by crewmen at first, until a lucky glance caused him to realize that she was there, and he stepped out of the way so she could enter the garage.

The DW12, Indy’s spec car, had a paint scheme that matched her racing suit. The middle, AKA the fuselage, was white-colored, but with flag piping that fortunately didn’t overwhelm the rest of the car, but the flag pinwheel was still there, on the sidepods, which were painted black. Her number was plastered on the front of the car, close to the cockpit. The wings were white, but the sides of the wings were black. All in all, it was just like her racing suit; it would have been perfect, had it not been for the sponsor.

She rubbed her forward as Hans approached, gesturing at the car. “Well?” he asked.

“It’s… interesting,” she said.

“Ah, so you’re Kathrin Muller!”

Kathrin turned around to see an IndyCar official approaching, hand extended. Hans walked up beside her, encouraging her to shake his hand.

“it’s pronounced ‘ _MYOOL-_ ler’,” she answered.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the official. “Anyways, we’re just going to have you run 40 laps in three phases at different speeds. Let’s see here… Ah! First phase, we’re gonna have you run 10 laps at 200 to 205 miles an hour. Second phase, you’ll need to run 15 laps at 205 to 210, and the last phase we’re gonna have you go over 210 for 15 laps. We’ll just be monitoring you throughout, and you have to pass 2 out of 3 phases. Do you understand?”

“Understood,” she answered.

“We also wanted to enter the Grand Prix,” said Hans. “Do we need to do anything else?”

The official made a face, checking the clipboard he had on hand. “Not that I know of,” he said tentatively. “Tell you what, I’ll check with my supervisors. Probably won’t need to do a whole lot more, just qualify like you normally would.”

“Thank you very much,” said Hans.

The official nodded and left.

“Why did _you_ ask that?” Kathrin asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If you want to ask next time, feel free.”

“I will,” she asked. Hans stepped away to continue working on the car.

“Do you need any help?” Hans asked. “I can go over—”

“It’s oval racing. How hard could it be?” she asked. Hans rolled his eyes, moving away from her.

“I thought Bryan Herta was fucking retired.”

Kathrin spun around. A young man, about her age with medium-length wavy brown hair, his racing suit half on, so he had his white undershirt and blue leggings, adjusted his sunglasses. He shrugged.

Something about this young man made her angry. Narrowing her eyes, she marched up to him, pointing her finger at his chest,

… And couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Can Iiiii help you?” he asked.

“Yes, you can leave,” she said.

The young man leaned to the side to get a better look at the car. She stepped aside to block his view, but he’d managed to get a good look at it. He scoffed. “Germany!? What, did the embassy sponsor your car?”

“ _Nein!_ ” replied defensively. “… The tourism board sponsors it.”

He scoffed again. “Sounds like you’re mad.”

“I am,” she replied.

He scoffed again. “Never seen a driver sponsored by their country.” He chuckled, which only angered her more.

“I don’t like it, either!”

“I think I know who you are,” he said. “You’re Kathrin Muller, aren’t you?”

“ _MYOOL_ -ler!” she corrected. “You pronounce the umlaut!” The other driver was silent, making her think she’d beaten him, but she quickly figured out he wasn’t beaten.

He was confused.

“Uh… what?”

Embarrassed, Kathrin retracted the finger she was pointing at his chest. He remained still, staring at her from behind his sunglasses. Stupid boy, definitely a _Wichtigtuer_.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Nothin’, I was just walkin’ around,” he answered.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Positive.”

This _Arsch_ was getting on her nerves without even trying, nor intention. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. The sunglasses obscuring his eyes hindered her attempts to identify him. “You look familiar,” she said.

“I get that a lot.”

“Kathrin, what are you doing—Ah! _Herr_ Disney, how fortunate that you would grace us with your presence.”

Hans was being sarcastic, but Kathrin felt her stomach sink. Kevin Disney removed his sunglasses, extending his hand to Hans to shake. “And you are?”

“Hans Gunther. I am _Fraulein_ Mueller’s crew chief.”

“Oh, okay,” said Kevin. “Is she always like this?” He’d wondered what kind of problem she’d had with him. He was just exploring the garages, and didn’t appreciate getting chewed out by a newbie.

“Were you like this as a rookie?” Hans chuckled. Kevin scrunched his lips and thought about it, then gestured with his head that Gunther had a point.

“Nah, I get it,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just looking around.”

“Don’t mind her,” said Gunther. “Are you here for practice?”

“Yeah, and supporting my teammate,” said Disney.

“Who?”

“Marcus Williams,” said Disney.

“Well, I look forward to competing against you,” said Hans.

“As do I,” said Kathrin. She extended her hand to Disney. He looked down at her hand, like he thought it was filthy, then shook her hand.

“Lemme guess. You think IndyCar is easy,” he said. “Stay the fuck outta my way on the track, newbie. But I also look forward to competing against you.”

Kathrin smiled at him. Not happy smile, but a “I’m going to fuck you up” smile. He couldn’t tell, walking away. Her smile disappeared, and she glared at him. Just to drive home the point, she flipped him off.

“Congratulations,” said Hans. “You’ve made an enemy.”

Kevin didn’t think for a second, nor did he give a flying fuck, that he may have made an enemy out of Kathrin Muller. He knew her type. A lot of drivers came over, assuming that IndyCar and oval racing were a lot easier than it looked, only to either metaphorically crash and burn, or fade away and go back to where they came from. Yes, some drivers made the transition easily, but that’s because they knew what they were doing. He didn’t see anything like that from Muller. He did wonder why she was so hostile to him at first, but he suspected it was the way he carried himself. She definitely looked like she had a chip on her shoulder, though, which made thinking of her inevitable failure all the more satisfying.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Marcus’s garage was Block C, number 15 on the southwest side of that block. As he approached, he saw Marcus, in his firesuit, with his phone out in selfie mode. He was undoubtedly recording an Instagram video for his fans and followers, so Kevin snuck up behind him as discreetly as he could, while knowing Marcus could see behind him. He stayed out of the camera’s shot, but within hearing range of Marcus.

“Yo, what up? This your boy Marcus!” he said. “I’m here at Indy, Rookie Orientation Day… I’m so excited man. Not the first time I’ve been to Indy, but I’m here to qualify for the 500.”

Kevin snuck up behind Marcus, peering over his teammate’s right shoulder, getting into the shot. “Who’re you talking to?” he asked, teasingly.

Marcus laughed. “Yo, this my teammate, Kevin Disney, no relation to Walt.”

“What up, what up, what uuuup!”

“Yo… you’re lookin’ at… the best driver in all of IndyCar, and your next Indy 500 champion.”

“Aw, shucks, you didn’t have to say that!”

“Who said I was talkin’ about _you_?”

Kevin smiled and laughed.

“Anyways, Kevin taught me all I need to know about racin’, and I hope he doesn’t hold it against me when I beat his ass out on the track.”

“Not before I beat you first,” said Kevin.

“So, anyways,” Marcus said, re-addressing his audience, “Kevin is my older… should I say it?”

“It’s your livestream.”

“A’ight. He’s my… older ‘brother from another mother’, to borrow some 70s slang.” Both laughed.

“ALL ROOKIE ORIENTATION DRIVERS TO THE PIT LANE!” an official shouted, presumably reluctant to interrupt their brother-from-another-mother bonding.

“A’ight, gotta go. Peace out!” They both gave the peace-out sign, and Marcus turned off the phone. With the invisible audience no longer there, Marcus sighed, heavily. Kevin patted his shoulder.

“Take some deep breaths, Marcus,” he said. “Y’all ‘right?”

“I’m excited, man,” said Marcus.

“Once you’re out on the track, you’ll be fine,” said Kevin. Marcus nodded. One of his crewmembers walked up to him, handing him his fire hood, helmet and HANS device. He gave Kevin a quick bro-hug and went to his car, painted pink and black and sponsored by a sports drink called “BodyArmor”, as his crew pushed it out of the garage.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Now in the pit lane, and no longer seething from her encounter with Kevin Disney, Kathrin sat in her car, adjusting her position. Looking on, Hans helped her get comfortable. Confident in this, Hans handed her the steering wheel. Her eyes widened, and she made a nervous whine. This was the wheel she’d used in her oval and road course tests in Europe, but that didn’t make it any less intimidating. An LCD screen sat in the center of the wheel, surrounded by buttons and knobs. He flipped it over, showing a pair of flaps on the back. She sighed. She knew what those were for.

“Those are for shifting gears,” she said.

“Correct,” said Hans. “Which one allows you to shift down, which shifts up?”

“Right is shifting up, left is shifting down. Those smaller paddles are for the clutch.”

“Correct again,” he said. He flipped the wheel back over, going over the buttons, starting from the right side. “These two buttons,” pointing at two white buttons near the top, “what do they do?”

“They shift the car’s weight.”

“ _Wunderbar._ Where’s your radio button?” She pointed at a red button to the left of the screen, labelled ‘radio’. “That was too easy. OT button, what does that stand for?”

“Overtake.”

“Correct, again. Where’s the pit speed button?” She pointed at a button just above the radio button. “Great. Now, your screen here, will tell you your speed, your gear, RPM, how close the car in front of and behind you is. You can switch the data here—” he pointed at the knobs. “You have been working in the simulator, correct?”

“Yes, yes, I have!” she replied, not mentioning that she hadn’t done enough.”

“Don’t be scared,” said Hans. “You’ll get used to it. I know you can.”

“ _Danke_ ,” she said.

“ _Bitte._ ”

“KATHRIN MULLER! FIVE MINUTES!”

Her chest tightened. A crew member walked over to the car, handing her the fire hood, helmet and HANS device. She put the radio earbuds, taped to her out ear, donned the fire hood first, which had a large enough hole in it for her face to show, then the helmet and the HANS device. A crewman helped hook the device up to her helmet, while two more buckled her in, and another slipped the plastic drinking straw in through her helmet. Hans donned his radio headset and found the frequency.

“Start it up,” he said. On cue, as instructed, she pressed the ignition button.

The car roared to life. It was the most beautiful sound she would ever hear, a roaring race car engine. She played around with some of the knobs, memorizing the screens.

“Mic check, mic check, do you read me?” Hans’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Ten-4,” she replied as a car rumbled down the pit lane, stopping behind her. The IndyCar official in front of her held his hand out, touched his radio headset, and gestured for her to go. Immediately, she pressed the gas, and with a push from her crew, rolled out of the pit and onto the pit lane.

If wearing a racing suit was like wearing her favorite pajamas, then being in a race car was like laying in the best bed in the world. Except that this bed was capable of speeds over 350 km/h. The pit lane seemed to roll on endlessly, past the grandstands that had stood for decades upon decades, and would, come race day, be filled with hundreds of thousands of cheering fans. Taking multiple deep breaths, she steadied her hands on the wheel, keeping herself on the pit lane speed as she rolled onto the service lane. Steadily, she steered until she was on the backstretch. Then she shifted gears and pressed on the gas, but not too hard.

Her first encounter with the famous turns of Indianapolis Motor Speedway would be turn 3. But since she wasn’t going at full speed, she turned the car like on a leisurely drive through the Bavarian Alps, along the short chute, and through turn 4.

It was like entering a canyon, created by the grandstands on the right side, and the stands on the left. Rolling down the front stretch, she could see a flash of green coming from the flag stand. Hans’s voice crackled over the radio, telling her just that. She shifted gears and pressed down on the gas pedal.

The G-forces didn’t immediately hit her like she’d expected, but they came along gradually as the car sped up, barreling down the front straight, crossing the start/finish line. She shifted gears again, increasing her speed until hitting 205 mph. The white of the turn 1 wall approached. She moved the car from the inside to the outside, and made the turn, hugging the inside of turn 1, lowering her speed to 200, sped up on the short chute, and slowed down in turn 2.

Now she was back on the backstretch, and she pressed back down on the throttle. A quick glance at the dash mounted into the steering wheel showed that she was close to hitting 205, so she let up on the throttle, dipping to 203, but getting back to 204. Looking back up, she saw the turn 3 wall approaching, so she made the same maneuver she made on the front stretch, moving to the outside, then turning to hug the inside groove of turn 3. Upon exiting the turn, she hugged the north short chute’s outside wall, then went back to the inside of turn 4.

The car seemed to fight a little bit as it screamed onto the front stretch, but she kept it steady. Now she had a good idea of what it took to attack this track; flat out on the straightaways, slow down a little bit on the corners. The car could use a little weight shift to the left, as well, and she did just that on the front straightaway. As she approached turn 1, she did the same thing, moving to the outside, then hugging the apron of turn 1. The car reacted differently. She jerked the wheel to the right to stop it from driving off the turn. She’d put too much weight into the left side.

Damn. Only two laps in and she’d already made her first mistake, overthinking.

She corrected the weight problem when she was on the backstretch, this time putting about 50-50, ending the little experiment she’d conducted.

It worked. The car didn’t oversteer like she feared, the steering going easier now. But once she returned to the frontstretch, and how quickly she sped through the canyon of the stands, her experience driving FR brought her to a realization; both cars were very similar in terms of speed and horsepower. Adjusting to IndyCar was going to be easier than she feared.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

As she was just getting started, Kevin emerged from Gasoline Alley, cup of Dunkin’ coffee in hand. Earpods rested in his ear, a playlist featuring Jay-Z, Wu-Tang Clan, Kendrick Lamar and Biggie Smalls going on his iPhone. Hearing the muffled down of a car screaming down the front straightaway, he turned to look, watching the black-and-white car zip past him. Mueller’s car was the only car he saw today with that paint scheme, meaning she was out on the track for her orientation. He just made a little “hmph” sound in his throat, sipped the coffee and turned north.

If his demeanor was different, that’s because it was. Long Beach was two weeks ago, and he had more important things, that being the entire Month of May, to look forward to. Dwelling on what should have been is fatal in most sports, and auto racing is no exception. Perhaps once he got back in a car—he hadn’t been in one since Long Beach would chase the residual bitterness away. Meantime, he greeted some of the on-site personnel with a nod or a reverse nod.

But someone approached, even as he looked out at the track, distracted by Mueller’s car zooming past and Jay-Z rapping about 99 problems. Well, Kevin had his own problems, and Mueller wasn’t one of them, but the man approaching might as well be. The person walked up to him, tried to get his attention and finally tapped his shoulder. Kevin spun to his right. His heart sank in the presence of Roger Penske, one of the most successful men in all of global motorsport, the owner of the car Helio Barrichello drove. Kevin paused his music as Penske shook his hand.

“Mr. Penske,” said Kevin.

“Mr. Disney,” said Penske, “Good to see you. Sorry about Long Beach, you gave us a hell of a run.”

Kevin cringed. “Don’t mention it,” he said.

“So, what brings you here to Indy?”

“Oh, Marcus is having his rookie test today,” Kevin answered. “Who’s out there right now?”

“Kathrin Mueller,” said Penske. Kevin made a “huh” sound in his throat.

“How’s your team?” Penske asked.

“I’ll tell you when Marcus passes his test.”

Penske laughed. “You know, the offer’s still there. If you want to race with us—”

“I like my team,” said Kevin.

Penske shrugged. “That’s alright. Looking forward to the 500?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Kevin.

“How’s your dad doing?”

“He’s doing okay.”

“Are you already sick of me?”

“Maybe.”

Penske laughed again, tapped his shoulder and walked past. Roger Penske wasn’t a person who rubbed loses in wounds, but Kevin was more determined for his small-team-by-comparison to beat Penske, thanks to the old man’s teasing. Yes, he knew Penske didn’t mean any malice, but—why was he obsessing over the old man’s words!? This is how Barrichello stays in his head!

To get Barrichello out of his head, he reminded himself that Marcus’s pit stall was supposed to be halfway between the entrance to Gasoline Alley and the north pit road entrance. Marcus and his car weren’t there right now, they were still at the garage getting things ready for his run. Kevin knew, he’d left Marcus there to prep with his team. Kevin would have to wait.

He stopped nearby, behind the pit lane wall to watch the rookies take their practice laps. Watching Mueller’s black-and-white car scream past reminded him of his own rookie orientation test. He aced that test. He didn’t do so well in the IndyCar Grand Prix, held in the infield road course originally build for F1, but finished a solid 8th in the 500.

He felt his phone vibrate once, pulled it out. Jazz (Jasmine) had texted him. “ _Is Marcus out there yet?”_ she’d asked.

He texted back, answering, “ _Not yet.”_

_“Some1 else out there?”_

_“That German driver.”_

_“When he does go tell him I hope he doesn’t crash.”_ Kevin chuckled. Totally a sister thing. “ _Btw, you’re buying me drinks tomorrow night.”_

_“Like on a date?”_

_“No.”_

_“Darn. Oh, well. Sure.”_

“ _And you’re buying.”_

_“Why do I gotta buy!?”_

_“Because I’m graduating! And it’s polite!”_

_“Oh, I forgot! Congrats!”_

_“Thx!”_

“ _How bt Kelly’s?_ ”

“ _I’m not Irish._ ”

“ _I am, but I like the place_.”

“ _Aight, since you’re buying. But you have to buy me the most expensive drink they have._ ”

“ _Hey, I’m not a drink buyer person!_ ”

“ _I’m_ graduating! _I’m celebrating!_ ”

Kevin snorted.

Not even ten seconds had passed though, when he saw some nerdy-looking thirtysomething dude notice him from a couple of stalls south. Kevin could see his credentials. He was probably a journalist. He nodded, and the suspected journalist approached him, extending his hand to shake when he reached Kevin’s row.

“Hi. Ken Starr, _Indianapolis Star_.” Kevin’s right eyebrow lifted. Starr bobbled his head. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Don’t remember you,” said Kevin.

“This is my first 500 for the _Star.”_

Kevin nodded, understanding. Starr pulled out his phone, opened the voice memo app, and shoved it in Kevin’s face. “Kevin Disney, tell us why you’re here.”

Kevin answered that he was there for Marcus and for the first official practice for the 500.

“Alright, how are you feeling right now?”

“I’m feeling pretty good, excited to start the Month of May. I think this will be our year. We’ve had a good, fast car all season, and the team’s been working their tail off to keep it that way.”

“Last year you had a pretty successful season, 4 wins and third in the championship standings. How are you building off of that?”

“Like I said, fast car, great team. But you know, those wins last year, they were hard-fought—well, most of them.” The one race that wasn’t hard-fought was the 600-miler at the quad-oval Texas Motor Speedway in Fort Worth, which he led 70% of. He chuckled, remembering that race.

“How are you feeling after Long Beach--”

“I’m not answering any more questions about Long Beach,” Kevin interrupted.

“But I just wanted to know--”

“And if you keep asking about it, I’m not answering any more questions, _period_.” Starr gulped, visibly shaken, but Kevin patted his shoulder. Releasing the breath he was holding, Starr continued.

“How has your driving style changed this year, if at all?”

“Hasn’t changed much,” Kevin answered, “At least I don’t think so. You know, these races, they’re long, so you gotta be patient, and then if you’ve got a chance, strike.”

“That’s not quite what I meant.”

“Well, that’s how I like to drive. Like Dale Earnhardt.”

“But I don’t remember seeing you push someone off the track,” said Starr. Kevin bobbled his head, acknowledging his point. “What lessons have you learned this year?”

Starr probably had that question for Long Beach, but at least he wasn’t being direct. Also, Kevin wanted to answer, ‘Helio Barrichello is a dick’, but he’d get in trouble if he did that. Erin would be furious for running his mouth. “You gotta keep your head in the game,” he said. “Although I might have some more lessons to learn.”

“Think this will be the year a Disney finally wins at Indy?” Starr asked.

“I hope so!” Kevin answered. “But here’s the thing: no one’s entitled to win a race. There’s 32 other guys out there chasing the same thing you are. Hopefully, we’ll have a fast car, great track position and a hell of a run to put us in position to win. I know that’s a cliché, but it’s true.”

“What do you say to people who say that you’re only in this position because of your family?”

“I’d say that they should look at my record,” said Kevin. “I’m not telling you how many races I’ve won! You’ve got Google, look it up!”

“What do you think about the competition this year?”

“Are you talking about Mueller?”

“And in general.”

“Competition’s the same as it’s ever been. As for Mueller, I haven’t seen her race, so I don’t know what to say.”

“I did some research—not into your family name—but I thought I’d point out that, if you do win the 500, you’ll be the first driver from Illinois to win since Floyd Davis in 1941. Is there any pressure?”

“Not until you told me!” Kevin chuckled. Then he shrugged. “Whatever. It’s trivia, isn’t it? Why should it define my career?”

“I understand you don’t want to talk about Long Beach,” said Starr. Kevin did not like where this was going. “I guess you can’t... let it go?”

Kevin sighed, stood up and walked away. “I’m only ending this because of the joke!” he called.

“Pleasure talking with you!” Starr called. Kevin waved back. He looked up in time to see Mueller finishing the first phase of her rookie test.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

“ _Phase one is complete,”_ Hans relayed over the radio, allowing her to feel just a little relief. Two more phases to go, but she just needed to pass one more.

She released one sigh, readjusted her grip on the wheel and accelerated to 207 MPH. The wind picked up a little bit. _I am one with the wind..._

The car screamed through turn one, the south short chute and turn two, bursting onto the backstretch. The car tried to dip onto the grass, but Kathrin held her grip. It wasn’t actually the car that made that move, it was her, but her getting used to going a touch faster, neither a mistake nor a purposeful move, a simple oversteer. But she effortlessly drove up the backstretch, making the third and fourth turns just as effortlessly, re-entering the front straight. No oversteer this time. She had the wheel steady. She grinned. She was showing that Kevin Disney that she could handle driving an IndyCar, unaware that he was mildly impressed with her effort, but still thought she was just another rookie.

She settled into a rhythm and groove, the same ones she’d seen on TV; run on the insides of the turns and long straightaways, outside on the short chutes. She never attempted to run over 210, in case they were asking for _exact_ MPH. They didn’t quite explain that to her enough. That’s why she kept her eyes on the speedometer, making sure she didn’t exceed 210, but didn’t drop below 205, only checking on the straightaways.

The wind howled, would have been deafening if she wasn’t wearing her helmet, or had her earplugs in to keep it out of her ears. It shifted on each part of the track; it came head-on on the straightaways and short chutes, and from the side and back to head-on in the turns. It was like she was driving a convertible on the Autobahn, something she would have to try when she had the chance.

With three laps to go in phase two, though, she looked to the right and— _Gott_ , that wall was close. She imagined her car somehow getting loose, like earlier when she almost oversteered, and slamming into that wall. Her heartrate went up, she felt it, and re-centered her vision dead ahead of her in time to make turn 3. She felt the back of the car sliding an inch to the right. She spun the wheel to that side, re-adjusting the car, applying the brakes to dip to 206 from 209, then turned the wheel to the left, again. The car steadied itself, and she sighed, again. After passing through turn 4, she checked the speedometer, seeing that she was still at 207.

 _Can’t let the monotony get to me,_ she thought.

She focused dead ahead. She adjusted her grip on the steering wheel and kept it steady. The front straightaway went by in seconds, hugging the inside, went to the outside before the turn and waited to make the turn. This time, she went full-bore into the turn. She grinned. _So that’s how you play_. Now she knew why IndyCar drivers stuck to the inside on those long straightaways. It was so different to driving a road course, yet so similar.

That’s not to say she’d become an oval racing expert in less than an hour, but now she had an idea of what oval racing entailed, and she would build on that in the lead-up to the 500.

Finally, she crossed the start/finish line and those bricks, ending phase two.

She released the breath she’d held those final three laps, and the world seemed to slow down. She’d certainly passed her orientation test, and now all she needed to do was show she could handle speeds over 210 MPH. Grinning, she accelerated past 210, moved to the outside just before the turn, and dove into the turn, hitting 217 MPH. She made it to the backstretch. Unburdened by the speed limit, she accelerated again. The speedometer shot up, hitting 225 MPH, the back-stretch flying past, the wind hitting her face. If she was nervous before, that was no longer the case. It was just her on the track, free as the wind, taking the first step to take on the rest of IndyCar.

She sighed, smiling. Haruka Tenoh would be proud of her… if she existed.

Kevin finally found Marcus at his pit stall, watching the crew rev up the car’s engine before his run. The rookie driver caught Kevin out of the corner of his eye, turned and gave him a bro-hug. Kevin looked just in time to see, on the TV, Mueller passing her test.

“Huh. Good for her,” he said. “Thought she’d crash after that slip. Anyway, you nervous, Marcus?”

“Nah, bro, I’m cold as ice.” He was shaking, and Kevin chuckled.

“It’s okay, dude,” said Kevin. “Here’s a tip; Short cute, put some weight on left front, but be careful exiting turns 2 and 4. Your tires are super-hot after turns 1 and 3, so be precise with your steering. Just a _leeeeetle_ understeer should get you through those turns. Personally, I don’t do that, but whatever works for you.”

“A’ight,” Marcus answered.

“First lap of each phase should give you a better on-track idea of what you personally need,” Kevin admitted. “But you’ve raced the Freedom 100, I think you know what you’re doing.” They both chuckled. “By the way, I think your sister asked me out on a date tomorrow night.”

Marcus stopped laughing and stared at Kevin. “Jazz?”

“No, Sister Mary at Ignatius. Of _course_ it’s Jazz!”

“Man, that’s crazy,” said Marcus. Marcus didn’t actually think it was that crazy. Kevin and Jazz had known each other for a long time, but not long enough for Westermarck to take effect. He once overheard his Nigerian-born mom teasing Jazz about a certain kind of dream she had about Kevin. “What do you think about my sister?”

“Well, she’s uh…” Kevin’s face turned redder than Ariel’s hair. “She’s a good friend!”

_Liar._

Mueller’s car sped past. Kevin whipped his head towards the track. “Have you been watching Mueller?”

“She’s alright,” said Marcus. He turned back to Kevin. “You alright, bro?”

“Gah, I ran into Roger Penske,” said Kevin. “And some newbie reporter asked me about Long Beach.”

“Ouch,” said Marcus. “What did Penske want?”

“Another offer to join his team.”

“Did you take it?”

“ _Fuck_ no,” said Kevin. Mueller’s car screamed by again. “I think we’re getting sidetracked. Dude, I know you might have some pressure, but don’t fret. They just want to see how you can handle the track. Just race the way you did in the Freedom 100.”

“A’ight.”

“Think ahead, but not too far ahead. Be smart, not reckless, nor too careful. Take it one phase at a time. Once you pass phase one, it becomes a lot easier.

“Oh! By the way, your dad’s here and he’ll be pissed if you—”

“HEY!”

“HAHAHA! Just joshin’! Anyway, feel, don’t think. Be water. Be the ball! I mean, be the car!”

Mueller sped by again, catching their attention. “Hey, how fast is she goin’?” Kevin asked.

“Two-twenty-three on that last pass,” said Marcus’s crew chief.

“Huh. Not bad,” Kevin remarked. “Let’s see how she does in the open practice.”

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Kathrin pulled into her pit stall, heart still racing from 100 miles at 200 miles per hour. She already knew she passed the test, but seeing the wide smile on Hans’s lips confirmed it for her. He held his hand out, she took it, and he pulled her out of the car after the safety harness was done.

“ _Wunderbar! Wunderbar!_ ” he said.

“I feel amazing!” she added. He could see her grin behind her helmet. In front of her, Marcus Williams climbed into his car. A familiar figure followed him, squatting next to the car, giving him some last-minute advice before his run. An idea popped into her head.

She passed by him within eyeshot, removing her firehood so she could shake her short hair out to get his attention, unaware that he was unaware he was possibly attracted to Marcus’s sister. She thought he, being a straight dude, would be flustered at the sight, but she was almost offended to see that he was confused, instead.

“Uh, I’m talking to my teammate, here,” he said.

“Did you see me out there?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” he answered. “Good for you.”

Her assumptions shattered, she scowled. “Aren’t you angry!?” she snapped.

“You still gotta qualify,” Disney replied. “Oh, and there’s the open practice later today.”

“ _Scheisse_ ,” she sighed. “Well, I’m going to—”

“Look, I’m in a rotten mood, and I’m talking to my teammate. Fuck off!”

Before she could respond, Hans had noticed she was antagonizing Disney, and nudged her away from him. “Leave him alone,” said Hans.

“Sorry,” she replied.

“Be patient. You’ll get another chance at him later. Like he said, there’s an open practice later today.”

Kathrin was glad he reminded her.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Marcus passed his orientation test easily, using the experience from the Freedom 100, the Indy Lights race at IMS that took place on Carb Day, the last day of practice before the 500. Now that that was out of the way, Kevin was eager to get back in a car for the first time in almost two weeks. The simulators had kept him sharp, but nothing compared to actually getting behind the wheel of the real deal. He emerged from Gasoline Alley, carrying his helmet, HANS device and firehood all in one hand, his firesuit zipped up. The air temp was manageable and would remain that way the rest of the day, so the heat from wearing the firesuit wouldn’t be a much of a factor.

His crew had the car out, revving up the engine, preparing for the open practice. Kevin walked up to Reggie, fist-bumping and bro-hugging him before donning his firehood, HANS device and helmet. A crewman hooked the HANS device to his helmet, then Kevin slipped into the car. People (who?) say that race cars are uncomfortable, but Kevin had been in this car so many times he didn’t notice that anymore. He just wiggled in his seat, adjusting his position and fastened himself in, a crewman helping. Then another crewman handed him the wheel, and they fastened it to the steering column.

Skip knelt down, clutched his hand. “How ya feelin’, kid?”

“Fuckin’ amazing,” he said.

“Just tell us if there’s any trouble,” Skip continued.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Kevin.

Five pit stalls behind him, Kathrin sat on the pit wall, prepared to climb in her car for the second time in the day. It still hadn’t gotten old, but the paint scheme was still an eyesore. The crew had changed the tires and refilled the tank in the time between her test and the open practice, but the engine had been idle. They needed to rev it up again before she could re-start it.

Hans sat down next to her, patting her shoulder, not saying anything verbally. In a good way. She smiled at him, happy for his presence.

“It’s ready!” a crewman declared.

She promptly stood, almost jumping, off the pit wall to don her equipment, then slipped in the car. One of her crewmen helped her buckle up, another placing a fan in front of her while she waited for the command.

Up and down pit lane, the drivers and crews who’d come to the speedway for the open test prepared for the practice, strapping their drivers in and making last-minute adjustments. Chatter filled the air, the air smelled like ethanol (is that what it was?). The go-ahead to start the practice would come from above any minute now. This would be the first of many practices the rookies would have with the series regulars and part-timers. Kathrin’s heart had nearly stopped when she saw Helio Barrichello from a distance. She’d hoped and tried to go up to him and tell him that she’d grown up watching him, but he walked past from 4 meters away.

Her thoughts returned to Kevin Disney, but she stopped herself, realizing he was occupying a space in her head rent-free, and he didn’t give a shit about her. It wasn’t a devastating realization, so much as it was just a refreshing reminder. All she had to do was worry about herself.

The go-ahead came from above, and all the engines on pit lane roared to life. One-by-one, cars pulled out of their pit stalls and took to the track. Kathrin was the first of our co-protagonists to roll off pit lane, giving Disney a glare as she passed by. Hey, she could worry about herself _and_ let Disney know how she felt!

Kevin rolled off next, following one of the Andretti Autosport cars. He kept his distance, running along the pit exit road along the south short chute that let out onto the back stretch. Two cars zipped by as he stuck to the inside of the back stretch, getting up to speed. Once up to speed, he tucked in behind an Ed Carpenter Racing car heading into the front stretch.

He’d raced this track twice before—well, 4 times, counting the road course, but it’s the road course, not the classic configuration. It was always a great feeling to race at Indianapolis, never getting old.

The looming famous grandstands on the west side of the straightaway were already casting afternoon shadows that creeping onto the track proper around turn 1. Kevin slipped behind the ECR driver before they made it to the shadows, in the car’s slipstream and drafted behind the ECR guy for most of the frontstretch. He lingered there entering turn 1, finding it difficult to pass on the tight corners and short chute. But as he got closer and closer to his opponent’s rear bumper, he knew that he had the upper hand in this battle, checking his speedometer to confirm. Two-twenty-five. The guy in front of him had to be going two-twenty flat.

Entering the back straight, he slipped out of the ECR guy’s slipstream on the inside, and they side-drafted down the straight, turn 3 getting closer and closer. The ECR driver tried to inch forward so he could beat Kevin going into the turn. But the longer he stayed there, and Kevin held the lead, Kevin had the advantage. It became clear as they prepared to enter the turn, Kevin slipping high, then turning, pulling ahead of his opponent. The ECR guy dropped back, becoming a speck in Kevin’s rearview mirror. He grinned. He’d won this round.

The laps accumulated, and Kevin was soon approaching his nemesis on the backstretch. Still burning from Long Beach, he increased the throttle, pushing it past two-thirty, reeling in Barrichello until he caught up with him just before turn 3. Barrichello pulled ahead, but Kevin kept up through the turn, the short chute and the other turn. He followed in Barrichello’s footsteps, and that is not meant either figuratively, nor positively, following Barrichello to the inside of the frontstretch, until he felt the car pulling him. He slipped out of Barrichello’s slipstream and effortlessly passed the Brazilian as they crossed the yard of bricks, even flipping him off. Kevin hoped this would be the finish in the 500.

There’s a reason race car drivers can’t predict the future.

A couple of laps passed until he came across Kathrin Mueller. Positioning the car behind hers to draft on the short chute, he thought of what he could do to send a message. He could either pass her, or he could give her a little nudge in the back to show who was boss. His rational brain wanted the former. His irrational brain wanted the latter and won out.

Entering the back straight, he pulled up behind her, and gave her a little nudge with his car’s nose. Then he maneuvered around to pass her.

Kathrin had been holding her own during the session, even passing some veteran drivers, like Frenchman Sebastien Deschamps and Penske’s Will Power. That’s his real name. Anyways, she used a drafting strategy similar to the one that Kevin used, then slingshot out of the turns past her opponents. It’s not a race, only the first practice session, but it was vital to see what she could do and formulate her on-track strategies well ahead of time.

Then she felt a slight jolt in the back. She looked in the rearview mirror and growled. Kevin Disney was on her bumper, and looking to pass. She hoped to keep her position, but that would not be the case. He pulled around her on the outside on the backstretch, hanging with her for a few seconds, then pulling ahead. During that time, she side-eyed glared at him, vowing to never let him get away with this, to get back at him. Kevin Disney had made an enemy of Kathrin Mueller.

And she had the entire Month of May ahead of her.


	5. Chapter 5

One of the requirements to race in IndyCar was to have American residency. Kathrin had gotten said residency, but needed a residence. She couldn't live in an Indianapolis hotel room the whole time.

So, she got an apartment at a place called Penn Street Towers.

It was a nice hotel in a great location, the Sheraton Indianapolis City Centre (that's its name) in the... City Centre... overlooking the main circular square. Not knowing if she was going to get as good a view as this, Kathrin lingered at the window, resting her chin on crossed hands, watching the people and traffic circling the square and the obelisk with a statue in the middle of the square. Morning traffic was typical, mostly people getting to work in the skyscrapers surrounding the square. Since this was the Capitol of the state of Indiana, she suspected more than a few of the people she watched below worked for the state. The rest were office or service industry employees.

She heard a knock on her door and turned around. Her suitcase was all packed, waiting at the side of her bed, and her race bag sat on top of it. Her room, called a "Monument View King", was almost completely clean and empty, having just the one bed and the two bags were all she brought with her to the hotel, a four-star. She didn't even bring furniture (to be fair, how could she transport a bed across the Atlantic? Call Angela Lansbury to fly it?).

The door knocked again, and Kathrin realized she'd been distracted by her own thoughts. She jumped off the chair, ran to the door, and opened it right as the person outside was about to knock again. The man, eyes wide, stared at her not out of unfamiliarity, but surprise, surprised that she'd opened the door so quickly, from what she could gather. He was somewhere in his late 40s, already seeing some grey here and there, but looked good and fit, no doubt thanks to a good diet and exercise regimen.

"Guten morgen," he said.

"Guten morgen," Kathrin answered.

"Did you not recognize your agent?" he asked.

"Did you not recognize your client, Thomas?" she asked in return.

Thomas grinned and entered the room, straightening out his jacket. He checked behind the bed, seeing her bags. "Is this all you brought?" he asked.

"Ja," she answered. Thomas shrugged, chuckling.

"At least you won't have trouble unpacking," he remarked. He watched as she picked up her jacket, throwing it over her white tank top, zipping it up. He looked her up and down, not in that way, but surprise. It was Kathrin's turn to chuckle this time, crossing her arms and giving him a sly look.

"Sorry, you look like a boy right now," he said.

"Then I'll take that as a compliment," she replied, picking up her bags.

"Before I forget, Herr Großkreutz wants you to visit the new shop for its grand opening," he said. "I'm also trying to book an appearance on EuroSport."

"Danke," said Kathrin, throwing her bags over her shoulder, flipping her hair to the side.

"Does that actually work on women?" he asked.

She paused, grimacing, then bashfully looked away. "... No."

Thomas laughed again, patting her shoulder. As he guided her out the door, he said, "There's a fine line between a look of desire and defiance sometimes. Pick the right moment, and you could use that against someone who hates you."

True. She was a lesbian in a straight male-dominated sport, living in a region not exactly known for tolerating people like her. The current Vice President, a smarmy, smug man with a warm, yet venomous voice and rhetoric, who once signed a law that all but legalized discrimination against LGBT people in the name of "religious freedom", was from Indiana. But so was the gay mayor of South Bend, who represented the state's future more than the Vice President represented its past. Besides, she didn't know what was going to happen yet, but she had a good feeling the paddock would be very supportive of her.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

They left the hotel, to walk to Penn Street Towers, because, as Thomas showed, it was only a couple of blocks due east of the Sheraton as the crow flies. But they would have to walk down Meridian Street, clockwise around the monument from the 12:00 angle to 3:00, and east along Market Street to reach their destination.

The first thing she noticed—actually, she'd seen it from her hotel window, but it still has to be mentioned—was that the square was paved with bricks. So was the sidewalk, but the brick-paved road was what really caught her attention. She'd done little research on Indianapolis itself, so she didn't know why the circle square was brick-paved. But for now, she just assumed it had something to do with the speedway, because racing is usually first and foremost in her thoughts.

Trees inhibited her view of the monument in the center of the circle, until they reached the intersection across from an old Episcopal church, allowing her to get a better look at the obelisk. A short flight of stairs let to two more, then the ornate obelisk proper. It towered above the square, its limestone construction making it stand out and fit in with its surroundings at the same time. She could see some writing on the façade, but it was so far from her that she couldn't make it out. But she could see the ornate decorations at various intervals, leading up to the top of the obelisk, where a statue of Victory stood, like an angel atop a Christmas tree.

Now, she did know it was a war memorial, and this part of downtown was known as "Monument Circle." See? She'd done some actual research into her new residence.

After a car passed, they crossed Meridian in front of the gothic revival church. Another tower towered (heh) above it, its modern glass-and steel construction contrasting, but not clashing with the gothic revival church and Columbia Club building next to it. But the building after that was so bland and generic it was forgettable, so she ignored it.

Turning left onto Pennsylvania Street, she finally got a good, in-person view of the building she was going to live in from now on. It was 14 storeys high, the first two storeys, the ground and first floor, were made of limestone, and the next 10 out of red brick and concrete, before the final three floors returned to limestone. A metal awning, extending over the main entrance, with the words "Penn Street Tower" welcomed her. Kathrin turned and smiled at Thomas. Thomas held out his hand, and she walked into the ground floor.

Art deco decorations greeted the two upon entering, leading to a hallway painted in light green and the stairwell. A man greeted them at the foot of the stairs, whom they found out to be a property manager. The middle-aged man held out his hand for Kathrin to shake. "You're Kathrin?" he asked. She nodded. "I'm Mike. Ready to move in?" He looked at the bags she carried. "Is that it?"

"For now," she said.

Mike shrugged, turned around and led them up the stairs. Then he stopped part-way up the flight. "I got confused for a moment. I thought you were a boy--"

"I get that a lot," she said proudly, causing Mike to shrug again. She wanted to say something about his wife, but that would have been very, very rude.

The first thing he showed them was the common room on the second floor, which was across the hallway from the leasing office. Since they weren't in a hurry, he showed them inside. A long couch, in front of two mahogany coffee tables and two chairs greeted them first, then the ping-pong table beyond those, and a sign reading "I N D Y" on the far wall. The long, striped couch faced a flat-screen TV hanging on the wall. On their left, a long counter jutted out. Moving into the room, they saw a coffee machine, fridge, microwave, coffee supplies and a sink, which sat below some cupboards. It had to have been for the community, and Mike confirmed those suspicions. A few more things—round, wooden tables surrounded by white chairs in front of the counter, and across the end, and an art installation depicting the building's front façade — were the last little stops on the tour. But it was a lounge, not a community kitchen. Every apartment had their own kitchen, after all.

After the lounge, Mike brought them back to the elevators, and took them to the 14th floor, the very top floor. He led them down a corridor, until they reached her apartment. Then Mike took out the key and opened the apartment.

A short hallway, decorated by a similar drawing of the building to the one she'd seen in the common room, on the left side, led to the living room. The white-colored bathroom with, with a granite countertop sink, and the just-as-white, carpeted, bedroom were on the right side. The kitchen had a fridge and stove in it, and the sink, surrounded by granite countertop, sat across from it. Dropping both her bags in what would eventually become the TV room, she hurried to the window, opened the blinds and took in the view of downtown Indianapolis.

"Like it?" Mike asked.

"It's wunderbar!" she breathed.

"Oh, you're German?" he asked.

"Of course," she answered.

"So uh, what do you do?"

"I'm an IndyCar driver."

"IndyCar!?" he sputtered, almost in disbelief. Mentally, she dared him to say what was on his mind, but the acknowledgement that he was just wondering what the hell an IndyCar driver was doing renting an apartment. To prove it, she opened her race bag, pulling out her helmet and firesuit. "So, um... will you be entering the 500?"

"Obviously," she answered.

"Have you heard of Kevin Disney?"

"I've met him," she answered.

"And what do you think of him?"

"I don't like him."

Mike finally laughed, but was interrupted by Thomas's phone ringing. He stayed quiet while Thomas answered, watching as he went from excited to not-so-excited, to resignation. "Team can't open the shop today," he said. "Minor gas leak."

"Oh well," Kathrin sighed.

"Eh, we can go furniture shopping," said Thomas.

"Oh, real quick, before I leave you two alone—"

"I'm her agent, and I'm married," said Thomas.

"Right, sorry. Anyway, I just need to tell you a few things. Rent is $1,125, plus various fees—storage, parking, utilities. Fitness center's in the basement in case you need it. You can park, but there are no assigned parking spots, we have a bike share program, and we also have some in-house storage. You can have a pet, but you will have to pay a fee and monthly pet rent."

"We get to rent pets?" Kathrin asked.

"No," Mike laughed, "That's the rent you have to pay for the pet."

"Oh," said Kathrin. She'd been hoping to rent a dog or a cat.

"Any other questions? Maybe about the neighborhood?"

"Is there a lesbian bar nearby?" Kathrin asked.

Mike looked at her suspiciously, then shrugged off her question, as if knowing she was daring him to say what was on his mind again. "I dunno. I know there's bars all over the area. And there should be some furniture shops around here somewhere, I'll have to check. OH! And you can pay your bills online."

"Oh, this place looks good!" Thomas remarked. Mike was about to question him, when he saw Thomas was on his phone. "Chatham Home on 517 East Walnut Street."

"I hear that's a good place," said Mike. "Sorry, thought you were talking about the apartment."

"It is a good place," said Thomas. "We should be going, Kathrin. I'll call us an Uber."

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

It was evening when Kevin left his Lincoln Park rowhouse condo building. He stuffed his hands into his hoodie because of how chilly the evening air was, lowered the brim of his White Sox hat to obscure his eyes, and started walking west towards Sheffield Avenue. Cars, some American, some Japanese, some European, lined up and down the street, a stationary recreation of a Chicago rush hour either on Lake Shore Drive of the expressways. The residential Lincoln Park neighborhood was a sharp contrast from hustling and bustling steel, concrete and limestone jungle of the Loop where some of these people worked, judging by the Lexuses, Mazdas and Cadillacs interspersed with Fords and Chevys.

He crossed under the Red and Brown Line L tracks, turning right on Sheffield, merging into a trickling stream of humanity that he was able to blend into. No one gave a shit about him. They probably didn't even recognize him. IndyCar was nowhere near as popular as its heyday from the 60s through the CART/IRL "split", that sadly turned it from the mainstream to the third-most popular racing series in America, after NASCAR and F1, at best. Made him wonder why a talent like Kathrin Mueller wanted to come over here instead of reaching the heights of fame and glory with F1.

But, the Indy 500 is still the Indy 500. And the racing is subjectively better. Sure, F1 cars are faster, but at least most IndyCar races aren't decided in the first turn of the race.

He did know a few F1 drivers, and they were cool dudes. A bit on the arrogant side, 'the best drivers in the world' and all that shit, but still cool to hang out and have some drinks with.

He found himself on the DePaul campus pretty quickly, St. Vincent de Paul Church being the marker. DePaul's campus isn't separated from the city like most college campuses. It's actually a part of the neighborhood itself, from Racine Avenue east to Halsted, and from the University Bookstore on Montana to the Church on the intersection of Sheffield and Webster, blink-and-you'll-miss-it. It's not DePaul's only campus, there's one in the Loop, too. It's really just some skyscrapers that the university uses for classes that don't fit in the tiny Lincoln Park campus, and some apartments.

Crossing the street, a statue of DePaul's legendary, long-time basketball coach Ray Meyer, in front of the DePaul Student Center, greeted Kevin. Then he kept going north, passing rowhouses with DePaul signs on them, until he reached the block-C-shaped Sheffield Square apartments. He thought this was her place at first, then remembered she lived in university-owned townhomes on Kenmore.

He climbed the steps, of the red brick townhomes, only to be stopped by a fence. Sighing, he pulled out his iPhone and called Jazz. "Yo, I'm here," he said.

"A'ight, be right there," she replied.

"WHO'S THAT!?" someone on the other end called.

"Kevin Disney!" Jazz replied. Kevin couldn't hear the other person, but it sounded like they were saying something, something "white boy". The argument continued for like, thirty seconds, then Jazz telling him she'd be there soon and hanging up. Shrugging, Kevin put his phone away, and hoped DePaul or CPD wouldn't drag his ass off for trespassing.

A couple minutes later, he spotted Jazz out of his peripheral coming out of the dorms towards him. Her braided hair was done up in a bun atop her head, and she wore a light jacket. Her skin tone, bright mahogany, shone in the evening sunlight. She was also lean, hints of good diet and exercise, just like Thomas, earlier. "Who was that?" he asked.

"Ugh, my cousin," she said. "I'll explain at the bar." Playfully, she hooked her arm in his, making him give her a puzzled look.

"You said this wasn't a date," he said.

"It's not a date."

"Then why are are you—"

"Just go with it," she said. Kevin had no other choice but to go with "it".

They went back in the opposite direction Kevin had come down Sheffield, but went east on Webster this time. Being the gentleman, Kevin did not let go of Jazz, but almost did when she asked him a surprising question.

"Why you wearin' a Sox hat?"

"Cuz I want to keep a low profile," he said.

"You already have a low profile," she replied.

"Yeah, but not like this," he said. "A Sox fan on the North Side—"

"SOX SUCK!" a passing pedestrian jeered.

"FUCK OFF!" Kevin replied. "That's why."

The sign for Kelly's Pub, big green and white beer mug, with overflowing shamrocks representing the beer, and the name written in gothic-style script, hanging from a three-story red brick rowhouse style building right next to the L tracks, greeted them. Under it was a smaller sign, reading "Established 1933". Again, being the gentleman, Kevin let Jazz enter first.

The pub's interior was mostly dark green, except for the brown wooden bar, chairs, tables, wainscotting (NOT an English subdivision. Please refer to Monty Python for that reference), and the white ceiling panels. Photos, vintage and modern, covered the walls. The pair picked a four-person table underneath a framed Chicago Fire Department logo. A small flat-screen TV sat on the wall for both of them to watch above the table, surrounded by some of the aforementioned photos. Naturally, this Irish pub was packed on St. Patrick's Day by people who went with the whole "I'm not Irish except on St Paddy's Day" as an excuse to get piss-faced, blackout drunk, perpetuating negative Irish-American stereotypes. And no, Kevin's not one of those fake Irish, despite his Norman last name. His Disney family, like other Normans in Ireland, became "more Irish than the Irish", even becoming Catholic. Basically, they assimilated with gusto.

He also took a genetic test earlier this year and found out he had more native Irish than Norman genes by now. Take that, WASPs!

(This doesn't mean he's superior to anyone, it's just nice little trivia on his background)

A waitress walked up to them and asked what they wanted.

"The most expensive drink you have," said Jazz.

"I'll just have an Old Style," said Kevin.

"Okay, I'll be right back with those," said the waitress, departing.

They looked over the menu. It was mainly typical American pub grub; cheeseburgers, wings, pizza and some Mexican staples like nachos, quesadillas and tacos.

"Gotta have the sponsor, huh?" Jazz asked, chuckling.

"Eh, I've grown to like it," he answered. "So, which cousin were you talking to?"

"Oh, Gerald—I mean, 'Kunta X'." She rolled her eyes so much Kevin could see more white than iris. "Yeah, he got the name watching Roots. Fuckin' Hoteps."

"What's a Hotep?"

"Super Afrocentric dudes who get obsessed over Ancient Egypt and say things like 'Black Queen' but get pissed off when we assert our independence," said Jazz.

"Sounds like some alt-right asshole," said Kevin.

"You could say that," said Jazz. "Anyway, he was mad we're going out for drinks. He thinks we're dating."

"Are we dating?"

"No."

"Okaaayyyy," he said. "Then what are we here for—" The waitress walked up with their drinks; a bottle of Old Style for Kevin, and a cocktail that looked like if a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster was real, and happened to be colored blue and red. "Dayum." Jazz sipped once, and doubled over, gasping.

"Worth it!" she said. "So... how did Marcus do?"

Kevin's eyes and face lit up. "Oh, he did fuckin' great!" he said. "You should've seen him! He passed his rookie test like it was nothing. I mean, he just went out there and drove like he knew the fuckin' place—obviously, he does—but he just went out and did his thing. I dunno what'll happen in the 500, but I think he could win the 500 someday."

"But not before you," she said, suspiciously.

"Well, if I don't have a shot to win, but he does, I'll do what I can to help," Kevin replied. "Teammates gotta support each other. But I think this might be my year."

"Listen to you, talking like you're Dale Earnhardt," she scoffed a laugh. "You're 22, you have an entire career ahead of you."

"But I wanna win now!" he whined.

"Why?" she laughed.

"It's the 500!"

"Okay, fine!" Jazz groaned. "But you gotta slow down, or else you'll burn yourself out. Can't win 'em all, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," he said.

"Gotta continue that racing nepotism, huh?"

"I told you, it's a racing tradition and legacy," he tried to correct her.

"Uh-huh. That's nepotism. You wouldn't be here if your daddy and uncle founded the team."

"Oh, that's rich! Your dad also works for us!"

"I didn't get my job through nepotism!" she replied. "I got mine the old-fashioned way!"

"Whaaaat!?"

"Yeah! I haven't told you this, but before we graduation high school, I asked my dad if he could help me get a job at the team," she said. "But he was like, 'no way, you gotta find your own job.' So I was like, 'fine, I'll apply myself', so I did! Your uncle was like, 'gurl, what you doin' applyin' here without work experience', and I was like, 'Man, I'll take any job, but you gotta respect me for doin' what white dudes do all the time.' And it worked! I come to work in the mail room, and my dad couldn't believe it! But I told him, 'Hey, you told me to find my own job', and he couldn't argue!"

"Holy shit," said Kevin.

"Basically, you gotta recognize your white male privilege."

"And how will this make me a better driver?"

"It won't, but it'll make you a better person," she said. "By the way, did you see Kathrin Muller?"

"Yeah, I ran into her in the garages," he said. "She had this black-and-white getup, both car and suit, and I thought it looked like Bryan Herta's old car. She got mad at me for some reason."

"What did you say to her?" she asked.

"I told her to stay out of my way," he said. Jazz snorted, almost getting a little snot in her drink (whatever it was). Kevin watched her, confused. "What!?"

"Why you actin' like a veteran!?" she laughed.

"I'm an established star!" he replied.

"You are not an established 'star', you can't even beat the established stars!"

"HEY!"

"What!? It's true!"

"Is not! I mean, yes, you're established in a sense, especially compared to her."

"Well, duh."

"So what else did she do?"

"Well, she passed her test," said Kevin. "She also said something, something, 'look what I did', I forgot. Then I gave her a leeeetle nudge in the back during practice—why are you laughing!?"

"Oh my god, do you know what this means!?" she continued, "You're going to be her Barrichello!"

"What!?"

"Think about it! She's a rookie, you're established, as you said, a white male who got his ride through a LEEEETLE bit of nepotism, arrogantly telling her to stay out of your way, and you provoked her!"

"Ah, SHIT!" he hissed. "I got two rivals now!?"

"Hey, she might be the best thing that happened to ya," said Jazz. "Do you think she's attractive?"

"Are you jealous of her!?" he laughed.

"NO!" she vehemently denied.

"Well, then, nah."

"Why not!?"

"She had lesbian written all over her," he said.

"How would you know that?" she asked. Kevin pulled out his iPhone. She watched as he fiddled with it, until he showed a picture of Kathrin Muller. "Oh. Damn, she's butch as hell. Who she think she is, Haruka Tenoh?"

"Who?"

Jazz rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Never mind."

"Oh, you're thinking of that cartoon with the... sailor girls or something."

"Yeah, Sailor Moon." She was fucking obsessed with that show, but preferred the manga it was based off of. Whenever she watched the old anime, she would trash things she didn't like especially if they contradicted the manga or just didn't make a lick of sense. You know, like an average viewer.

"I just can't believe you were jealous of her," Kevin chuckled.

"I was not!"

"Are you attracted to me?"

"No! Are you attracted to me?"

"No." he wasn't looking when he gesticulated, knocking the bottle of Old Style off the table. Quickly, he jumped out of the chair and managed to catch the bottle before it hit the ground. Jazz didn't move, but watched him bend over, allowing her to savor the sight of his fine, lily-white ass. He straightened himself up, asked for another Old Style, and unzipped his hoodie. He removed it, and she got another look at him, this time his strong arms that could easily wrap around her, holding her tightly. Sheepishly, she sipped her drink again. Yes, she's a black woman attracted to a white boy, and totally in denial about it.

"I need to use the restroom," she said. She got out of her chair and removed her jacket. Kevin stared at her arms, which would make Michelle Obama proud, and the salmon-colored tank top that made him blush and squirm in his seat. He watched her leave for the rest room, her hips swaying. The waitress came with his new Old Style just in time so he could get his mind out of the gutter. But several minutes later, she returned, undoing her bun, letting her braids fall all over her shoulders, then putting them in a low ponytail. He ignored the bartender and waitress snickering at them.

"So what do you have coming up?" she asked.

"Next week, we're doing a road course practice, and an IMSA race at Mid-Ohio," he answered.

"Excuse me," they heard behind them. A middle-aged man walked up to them, along with his friend, holding a smartphone. The man held out his hand. "You're Kevin Disney, right?"

"That's what they tell me."

"Can I get a picture with you?" asked the man.

"Sure," said Kevin. The man with the phone moved around, so Kevin could pose with the man who just made the request. He took a couple pictures, and shook Kevin's hand.

"Nice to meet you," he said. "I was a big fan of your father's."

"Thanks," Kevin replied, a little disappointed. The two men left, but Kevin could overhear the man's companion say,

"He's not even as good as his dad."

"Shush."

Kevin sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, clenching his fist. Jazz reached out and softly patted his forearm, and he released the breath in a long sigh.

"Thanks, Jazz," he said, quietly.

"You're welcome."

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Are you kidding!? No lesbian bars!?" Kathrin almost threw her MacBook, but it would've bounced off her air mattress and get super broken instead of regular broken. Instead, she gently placed the laptop down, next to the mattress and a couple boxes of Chinese delivery, then collapsed backwards onto the air mattress, spread-eagle and looking like she was about to make some snow angels.

To be clear, she did find some gay bars in Indy, but they weren't lesbian bars. Of course, she chastised herself, she was fortunate to be in a city with gay bars. But it would've been nice, anyway, and it would be easier to find a pretty fraulein. She just wished there were gay bars that catered primarily to lesbians.

She laid on her mattress, smoothing out her white, spaghetti-strap tank top, staring at the ceiling. Her bedroom was still sparsely furnished because, while she'd gone furniture shopping earlier in the day, the store couldn't deliver said furniture today, probably this weekend if their schedule allowed it. Her schedule certainly allowed it, she wasn't going to drive a competitive race for two weeks. So, Thomas loaned her an air mattress for the time being.

She sat up again, picked the MacBook back up and examined her options. The Metro was a good choice, but it was a bit far away, and she didn't have her bike.... Her motorcycle... And, didn't want to call an Uber. She wanted to walk.

She looked through Google Maps again, and—ah! She found a place; Wild Beaver Saloon, and it was two blocks south, on Maryland Street. Her mind was made up. She got up, donned her leather jacket, and was out the door in an instant.

It was a five or six-minute walk from the apartment building to the bar, straight south down Penn, then west on Maryland. She saw the sign, a cartoon beaver in a yellow circle above neon words, in a Wild West-kind of font, reading "Wild Beaver Saloon". Something about it told her it wasn't a lesbian bar, but the name was a bit too on the nose. Yeah, she knew about the double entendre intended, and didn't care at the moment. She walked up the ramp leading into the building that must've been, what? 100 years old? And entered.

The place was big, and packed. The first thing she noticed, besides the size of the crowd, was just how loud it was. Forgive the cliché, but she could barely hear herself think. Wooden fencing lined the walls, except in places she could just barely make out the bricks in the dim light. To her right, some women not much older than herself were drunkenly singing a karaoke version of "Hit Me Baby One More Time", getting loud, raucous cheers from the crowd. But she could hear herself thinking about how mixed the clientele was, and it immediately dawned on her that it wasn't a lesbian bar!

Disappointed that she'd gone to a regular Straights bar, she sighed, and turned around to leave. But as she was leaving, she felt someone tapping on her shoulder. She turned around. A woman, probably the same age as her, in old lady glasses, reached her hand out.

"YOU'RE KATHRIN MULLER, AREN'T YOU?"

"MYOOL-LER!" Kathrin shouted over the din.

"SO YOU ARE HER! I'M HELEN, NICE TO MEET YOU! AND NICE TO HAVE ANOTHER WOMAN DRIVER IN INDYCAR!"

"DANKE!" Kathrin replied.

"WERE YOU ABOUT TO LEAVE?"

"YEAH, SORRY!"

"IT'S OKAY, THIS PLACE ISN'T FOR EVERYONE! I'M HERE WITH MY GIRLFRIEND—"

"ARE YOU GAY?"

"NO, I'M MARRIED, BUT I HAVE A CLASSMATE FROM GERMANY WHO MIGHT LIKE TO MEET YOU! WE GO TO BUTLER!"

"BUTLER!?"

"BUTLER UNIVERSITY!"

"IS IT A UNIVERSITY FOR BUTLERS?"

"NO, SILLY!" Helen laughed. "COME ON, I'LL INTRODUCE YOU! OH, WAIT, GET YOURSELF A DRINK, FIRST!"

"FINE!"

Several minutes later, holding a cup of Jack and Coke, Kathrin followed Helen deeper into the bar. There were a lot of men here tonight. She wasn't uncomfortable surrounded by men, in fact she could be a lot like a man sometimes, she thought, but she was still disappointed and felt a little cheated.

The crowd opened up, and Helen sat down with a group of young women seated around a table. Helen tapped the shoulder of a young, brown-haired woman. The woman turned around, and her eyes lit up. Kathrin was stunned. It couldn't be! Coincidence was a thing, but there was no possible way that Annie Kruger could be here, in Indianapolis, right now, at the same time as she!

"ANNIE!?" Kathrin finally sputtered. "IS THAT YOU!?"

"KATYA!" Annie jumped from her seat and threw her arms around Kathrin. Yes, that was her, alright. Kathrin blushed, savoring her soft body hugging her, and the familiar scent of strawberry shampoo.

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!"

"ADMIT IT, YOU SMILED WHEN I CALLED YOU THAT!" Annie teased. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!?"

"I'M HERE TO RACE—"

"JA, JA, I KNOW!" Annie interrupted. "I MEAN, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

"OH! I JUST FOUND THIS PLACE ON GOOGLE!"

"I COME HERE OFTEN WITH MY FRIENDS!" said Annie. "ARE YOU LIVING HERE?"

"JA, JUST TWO BLOCKS NORTH!"

"THAT'S WUNDERBAR!" said Annie.

"ANNIE, YOU KNOW HER?" asked Helen.

"JA, JA, I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH HER!"

"ANNIE, I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!" said Kathrin.

"NEITHER CAN I! PLEASE, PLEASE, SIT DOWN!" Next thing she knew, Kathrin was seated, surrounded by some very interested women. Oh, if only they were gay like her... Blushing, she lowered her head. Then she took a swig or the Jack and Coke, nearly coughing it up. The whiskey's cough syrup-like taste and feel always caught her off guard the first time, even with the Coke smoothing things out. Struggling to swallow, she ignored the laughing from the other women.

"GET 'ER AN IPAAAA!" one of the women shouted. Kathryn was about to object, but a waitress placed a beer in front of her. She took one sip of the stuff and nearly coughed that up.

"UGH! WHAT IS THAT?! DAS IST KEIN BIER! I'll just have a Jagermeister." She hated to sound stereotypically German, but she also didn't want any American pisswater. A couple minutes later, a waitress walked up to the table, handing her some Jagermeister. She took a sip. The taste of black licorice was all too evident.

"IS SHE THE GIRL YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT?" one of the women asked.

"OF COURSE!"

"Annie! ANNIE!" Kathrin could still hardly hear herself speak over the din. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"

"I'M IN BUSINESS SCHOOL!" Annie replied, proudly.

Business school!? Kathrin now felt like she didn't know her supposed best friend anymore. Why didn't she tell her? She didn't quite feel betrayed, just... wished that Annie had told her this. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME!?"

"OH, I'M SORRY!" said Annie. "I FORGOT!"

"SO LIKE, YOU'RE AN INDYCAR DRIVER?" one of the women asked.

"JA!"

"HOLY SHIT, THAT'S AWESOME! ARE YOU GONNA RACE IN THE 500? I GOT SNAKEPIT TICKETS!"

"JA!"

"BY THE WAY, DO YOU KNOW KEVIN DISNEY?"

"HE'S SO HOT!"

Kathrin rolled her eyes, grumbling. "NO, BUT I'VE MET HIM. I HATE HIM."

"BOOOO, THAT'S MEAN!"

"HEY, WE HAVE A CELEBRITY IN OUR MIDST!" said Helen. "SHOW SOME RESPECT!"

"HAVE YOU QUALIFIED?" Annie asked.

"NOT YET! BUT I HAD MY ROOKIE TEST YESTERDAY! I PASSED!"

"CONGRATULATIONS, KATYA!" Annie bellowed. "AND I'M GRADUATING!"

"YOU'RE GRADUATING!? CONGRATULATIONS! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NEXT?"

"I ALREADY HAVE A NEW JOB LINED UP THAT I START BEFORE THE SEMESTER EVEN ENDS, HERE IN INDIANAPOLIS!"

"WHAT IS IT?"

"YOU'LL SEE!"

"WHAT ARE YOU TALKIN' ABOOOOUUUUT?" one of the women asked. Annie and Kathrin had been speaking German. Most importantly, Kathryn has forgotten about her beef with Kevin Riley—DISNEY! See? She'd forgotten—and focused on her best friend, also forgetting about earlier. It might've been the alcohol. Her gaze mostly stayed on Annie, and when it wasn't, she couldn't see that Annie was gazing at her just as intently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say about this, just that I did a lot of research into both DePaul and Penn St Towers.
> 
> You'll notice that with Kathrin, everything is new, but with Kevin, everything's familiar. That's on purpose. After all, Kevin knows all this stuff, but Kathrin is a stranger in a strange land. The narration is meant to reflect this, with Kevin knowing his way around, but Kathrin has to use Google Maps. 


	6. Blowback

Kevin worked the simulator, keeping the wheel steady in the simulated IMS short chute between the simulated turns 1 & 2\. Simulators could not replace actually being on the track, because they're simulations, as the name suggests. But they were still invaluable in modern racing, even though the only racing equipment Kevin wore right now was a pair of blue gloves.

Skip, Reggie, Tom, and the team's director of racing and competition, Oswaldo "Ozzie" Guttierez, watched, taking notes and examining the data. Reggie leaned to whisper something in Skip's ear, then turned his attention to his son, two sims down from Kevin, with Deschamps in between. Deschamps's crew chief, Greg Baldwin, and Marcus's crew chief watched from the same spot, albeit focused on their respective drivers.

All three drivers were set up in their own simulator, just a seat from the Dallara DW12, in front of a U-shaped screen that wrapped around each driver. The simulated IMS displayed on the flatscreens in front of them, a 180-degree display. Unlike the high-tech simulators that F1 teams, or even IndyCar's chassis provider Dallara use, these particular simulators at the Team Disney facility on Chicago's Goose Island were more like glorified arcade or home simulator setups. Yet, with the high-tech software, and seat motion simulators, and the barebones setup in the simulator room, it was as good as they could get. They probably weren't the only ones, either. IndyCar teams don't even have a fraction of the budget F1 teams have.

This barebones setup was in one of the bigger rooms at headquarters and set up like this: Kevin, Deschamps, and Marcus were all lined up in their sim rigs from left to right. Their crew chiefs and crew members followed the simulations behind them, computers set up on folding wooden tables, displaying real-time data about the car, track temp, and surface.

Going into the virtual turn 3, Kevin understeered and slipped up the track. Tom groaned. "Come on, Kevin, what're you doing!? You can't make that kinda—"

"Tom," Reggie interjected.

"Mistake in the Five—"

"Tom!"

"Hundred and expect to win—"

"TOM!"

Tom stopped, turned to Reggie, who was unhappy with him. "Calm down, it's just a sim."

Sighing, Tom turned his attention back to the simulators.

Clenching his teeth, Kevin sped up through turn 4, almost running into a virtual car in front of him.

"Easy, buddy," said Skip. "Take some deep breaths, alright?"

Following Skip's suggestion, Kevin re-gripped the steering wheel. He wondered why his dad couldn't keep his mouth shut while he was driving, but that was about the last of his complaints about his father. Action in the simulated race brought his attention back to where it belonged, as a pair of virtual cars got tangled up in front of him, forcing him to brake and swerve out of the way just in time.

"Hope that wasn't one of you guys," Kevin said to Deschamps and Marcus.

"Nope," said Marcus."

"Not me," Deschamps answered.

"Nah, it was Simon Pagenaud and Scott Dixon," said Skip.

"Aw, I wanted it to be Barrichello," Kevin chuckled.

"Alright, we're gonna restart," said Skip. He nodded to one of the sim controllers. The sim reset, the cars lined up in a two-by-two formation seen in NASCAR restarts that IndyCar was bringing back for oval tracks. Kevin found himself right behind a virtual Kathrin Muller. As soon as they were given the go-ahead, all three drivers pressed the gas pedal in their sim rigs, their virtual cars virtually screaming down the virtual IMS front straight away.

The virtual Kathrin Muller pulled ahead, but Kevin slipped into third behind Barrichello. He drafted with his rival for several hundred feet, then looked to pass him on the backstretch. But Barrichello cut him off going into turn three, making Kevin growl with frustration.

"Come on!" Tom groaned, making Reggie tap his upper arm.

"Easy buddy, easy," Skip reassured.

Kevin brought his virtual car into the front straight, slipping behind Barrichello again. Drafting as long as he could, he jerked the steering wheel to the right, bringing the car to the outside, then turned left at turn 1, pulling ahead of the AI Barrichello. He fully overtook him in the short chute, dove to the inside of turn 2 and took the position ahead of Barrichello.

With the virtual Muller in his sights, he ducked to the inside, accelerating. The virtual Muller got closer and closer, until Kevin was right behind her, entering the front straightaway. He tried to repeat his outside move on Barrichello but couldn't. Muller still held the lead, until the virtual car slipped, going up turn 2. Seeing his opportunity, Kevin accelerated, diving to the inside and passing Muller. The AI Muller was back on his tail, though, keeping up with him entering turn 3. He bit his bottom lip, watching the AI Muller in his virtual rearview mirror, staying with him in the short chutes, entering and exiting turn 4.

He pressed harder on the accelerator, pushing the virtual car harder than he'd pushed a car before, and the AI Muller was _STILL_ on his tail. As they neared the start/finish line, the virtual Muller pulled out from his rear bumper, looking to make a move on the outside, the left front tire already reaching Kevin's cockpit as they crossed the line—

 _BANG!_ The doors flew open, startling everyone in the room, they were so fixated on Kevin's virtual duel with the AI Muller.

"KEH-VIIINN!" Erin roared. Kevin, Deschamps, and Marcus looked to their left. She stood in the door, holding something in her hands. Judging by how loud she'd shouted, she must've been _pissed._

"What did you do this time, Kevin?" Sebastien asked.

"Hey, if this is about the donuts in the breakroom, I swear I didn't—"

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!?" she roared, holding up the paper, walking threateningly towards him.

"It's a piece of paper," he replied.

"I KNOW it's a piece of paper!" she shouted, walking up to the sim, shoving the papers into Kevin's hand. It was an _Indianapolis Star_ article she'd printed out. Kevin started reading, ignoring the unbuckling of seatbelts, and Deschamps and Marcus reading the article over his shoulder. He realized, despite how angry she was, she'd circled two paragraphs in the article. The first paragraph, it mentioned Kathrin Muller, who'd Ken Starr had interviewed, mentioning that Kevin had told her to stay out of his way. Kevin gulped.

" _Muller told me that Disney had come to her garage and arrogantly told her to stay out of his way. Later, during practice, he bumped her, presumably to enforce his point._ "

"That's what you're angry about?" he asked.

"I'm mad, but not in an apoplectic rage because of that," she answered. "That's just you being arrogant. Flip to the next page."

He did.

" _I also talked with Kevin Disney. I did ask him about Long Beach, at which point he got angry, threatening to cut off the interview. He mostly dismissed Muller, mostly because he wasn't focused on her. He did mention that the competition is the same as it's always been, and no one's entitled to win a race. However, when I asked him if he'd gotten over Long Beach, he walked off._ "

"Okay, but in my defense, he quoted 'Let it Go'—"

"YOU WALKED AWAY FROM AN INTERVIEW!" she roared, "WE DON'T NEED THAT KIND OF BAD PUBLICITY ANYMORE!"

"I'm not going to indulge the Disney jokes, but he—"

"You owe him an apology!" Erin interrupted.

"But why!?"

"I dunno, maybe because YOU WERE RUDE TO HIM!"

"Calm down, Erin," said Ozzie. He walked up to Kevin, took the paper from him, and read it over. "Looks like he meant to say he quoted the song, but his editor wouldn't go with it."

"Besides, the dude got the reason I left," said Kevin.

"I just got off the phone with the Pabst Brewery," Erin sighed. "They're _pissed._ "

"A brewery's pissed?" asked Reggie. "Get a load of this; a brewery's mad about misbehavior!" The group laughed, but Erin still wasn't happy.

"Oh, and Marcus's sponsor wasn't happy, either."

The laughter stopped. Body Armor is a sports drink made from coconut water, not an alcoholic beverage. "Oh, and someone told me that if the Mouse House gets word of this, they'll be even _more_ pissed!"

"You just made that up," said Ozzie.

Erin paused. "Okay, so I made that part up! The point is, KEVIN! Apologize to the reporter!"

"Why!?"

"I _told_ you why!"

"Calm down, Erin," Reggie said, walking up to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Take some deep breaths, okay?"

"He has. To. Apologize."

"And he will," said Reggie. "You're right, that was beyond rude." Overhearing this, Kevin threw up his hands and slunk back into his seat. "But you're overreacting a bit—"

"Because I'm a woman?"

"Because you're still new to this running a team thing and you're stressed, and you're treating everything like a potential game over situation."

Erin had not been in charge of Disney Automotive and Racing for very long, only since January. Her mother, Karen, ran the team and company in Robert's stead after his death. He had actually left the team in Erin's hands, but only when she was over 21. Needless to say, no one sees a premature death, so Karen, who had business experience, took over. That is, until last December, when she suddenly announced that she was stepping down, retiring, and carrying out the part in Robert's will that gave Erin full control over the company. She inherited a thriving company, but... something seemed off about her the past few weeks, even after Kevin's victory at the IndyCar Classic at Circuit of the Americas.

"Okay, okay, it's just..." She took some deep breaths, and visibly calmed down. "He still needs to apologize."

"We already established that!"

"By the way, Jazz is here," said Marcus.

"Oh, that's a great idea," said Reggie. "How about Jazz help you out?"

"I need Jazz for her secretar—oh, right. Ok. I think I know what I can ask her to do."

"Good," said Reggie. "And, one final time, we'll have Kevin apologize to the reporter." Some team members grabbed Kevin's arm. He screamed as he was dragged off.

"Do you need my help?" Tom asked.

"No thanks," said Erin.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

A hot, steaming, delicious-looking container of chicken teriyaki, delivered from some sushi place on Halsted, delivered via GrubHub, sat in front of Jazz, ready to be eaten. Licking her chops, she broke the pair of chopsticks. " _Itadakimasu_!" she sang, picking up a piece of chicken, bringing it to her mouth—

"JAZZ!"

She almost dropped the chicken piece. Luckily, she just squeezed the chopsticks harder. Annoyed, she looked up from the desk, and her anger at her interrupted lunch vanished. Erin leaned over the counter in front of her, making Jazz back away, for the simple reason that she was getting up all in her space while she was trying to eat. Looking around, she noticed some of her fellow employees staring at the two, awkwardly. "I need you to do something for me," said Erin.

"And I'm tryin' to eat," said Jazz.

"It's important," said Erin. "It's related to your degree." Jazz had been about to put the chicken in her mouth again, but paused, her mouth wide open. She was definitely willing to listen. "You're studying marketing and public relations, right?"

"Right."

"Well, it's related to that."

Jazz could hardly believe what was going on. "Am I gonna get a raise?"

"Even better. I'll transfer you to accounting."

Jazz closed her mouth, squealing in her throat. She put down her chopsticks in the container, closed it, and stood up. Her desk, decorated with pictures of her, Reggie, and her mom, would have to wait until later.

She followed Erin into her office. Erin closed the door and gestured for her to take a seat, which she did, and went right back to eating. Erin sat on the other side. She took some deep breaths and donned her glasses. Jazz paused, mentally remarking that she looked a lot more like the stern businesswoman she wanted to present herself as. But, judging by the red on her cheeks, that wasn't quite the case.

"What did Kevin do this time?" she asked.

"He walked out of an interview," said Erin, making Jazz roll her eyes. "But that's not why we're here."

"Okay..."

"Last year, we spent $15 million on Kevin's team alone," said Erin. Jazz nearly choked on a particularly scrumptious scoop of rice. "Add Deschamps, and that's a total of $30 million. And this is before driver, pit crew, mechanic, engineer, et cetera, salary."

"Okaaaayyyy..."

"Meanwhile," Erin continued, aware that Jazz didn't know what her point was, "The company made $150 million, including Kevin and Sebastien's winnings."

"Shouldn't we be in the black?" Jazz asked. "Are we in the black?"

"We're not," said Erin. "It doesn't take a math genius to run the numbers. We've spent at least one-fifth of our total earnings on the race team, not counting IMSA and Trans-Am. Meanwhile, some owners, like Roger Penske, who owns teams in NASCAR, IndyCar, and IMSA, and NASCAR's Rick Hendrick, are worth $1 billion each. Disney Automotive is only worth one-third of their respective fortunes. What's more, Mullers' team, Grosskreutz, might be worth more than us, too. If we're going to challenge the likes of Penske, Andretti, and now Grosskreutz, we need out talent firing on all cylinders."

"Right, thanks for the shareholders' pitch," said Jazz. Now, to be clear, $150 million is not a pretty penny, in fact, it's more than most businesses, especially small businesses, make in a year. In fact, some major businesses don't even make a profit, _period_.

"I just need you to in the marketing and public relations department," said Erin. "Unless you want me to send you to accounting—"

"I like accounting."

"... Unless you want to be Kevin's personal PR person."

"Sounds like a nightmare. That's not a threat, is it?"

"It is not."

"Will I get a raise?"

"You will get a raise."

"Do I get to make commercials?"

"If you want to."

"Then I'll do it," said Jazz. "But I also want to help in the accounting department."

Erin tilted her head. "That can be arranged."

"Thanks," said Jazz. "I won't let you—I mean, the company and team down."

"Thank you very much," said Erin. "Now, finish your lunch, pack your things, and report to marketing."

As Jazz was about to leave, Reggie stepped in, carrying a sheet of paper. He didn't look happy about it as he handed it to Erin. She read it over, sighed, and threw it on the desk. "If he'd going to half-ass an apology, he could at least make it look like he full-assed it!"

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Kathrin got in the car waiting for her on Penn Street, scooting over so Thomas could get in next. After the driver needlessly and awkwardly asked if they were related, they were off, their destination being Groskreutz's new shop in northwestern Indianapolis between W 86th and W 79th streets. According to Herr Grosskreutz, it was one of those warehouse buildings that filled suburban landscapes in so-called "industrial zones", built in the early 2000s, but the business it had originally housed had gone under around the 2008 economic crisis. Then it changed hands three times until Grosskreutz bought it for their American headquarters.

Thomas got off the phone with his wife, still in _München_. The Uber driver, now on his way, took the opportunity to address them. "So, uh, is he your son?"

"She's my client," said Thomas. He looked over at Kathrin. She'd gone with the tomboyish/masculine/butch/chapstick look today; a leather jacket and a pair of jeans. "I thought you were going to wear something more feminine."

"It was too chilly out," she replied in German.

"What'd she say?" the driver asked, nervously.

"She said it was chilly out."

"Oh. Yeah, it is chilly. Not surprising for April."

The nondescript industrial building that would serve as Grosskreutz's new American headquarters was so nondescript, Kathrin couldn't find it among the other nondescript industrial buildings. The only way anyone could tell that it was their new shop was the big banner hanging over the entrance reading, "GROSSKREUTZ AUTOSPORT". The person who made the banner must not've known how to do an _Eszett_. It should read, "Großkreutz". Better than people forgetting the umlaut in her name. 'Muller?' That just didn't sound right.

The car stopped in front of the shop. She and Thomas exited on their opposite sides. The car drove off, and Kathrin and Thomas walked into the shop.

The receptionist was distracted when they first walked in, turned away from them, doing... something, they couldn't see because her body obscured her activities. Then she turned around, finally noticing them. At first, she was visibly confused, then made a sound of surprised realization. "Oh, hello! You must be Kathrin! I'm sorry, I just started, and I thought you were a boy." Inwardly, Kathrin pumped her fist. Two times she'd been mistaken for a boy!

"You are?" Thomas asked.

"Phyllis, I'm originally from Terre Haute," she said.

"Okay, Phyllis ImoriginallyfromTerreHaute," said Kathrin, causing Phyllis to laugh.

"And here, I thought you Germans weren't funny!" she joked.

"It just takes some getting used to," said Thomas, looking all smug.

Phyllis ImoriginallyfromTerreHaute turned away from whatever she was working on and picked up the phone. The call lasted a few minutes, then Phyllis hung up, stood up and motioned to Kathrin and Thomas to follow her. She emerged from behind the desk and led them away from the main entrance.

They skipped the offices, and the breakroom, and entered the shop proper. The sound of the opening door echoed all over the massive, cavernous space, so big that Kathrin had to look up to see everything. Bringing her sight back to ground level, she could see team employees hustling and bustling every which way on the floor, carrying stuff around. Listening to some of the chatter, she deducted that many of them were local residents, just like the woman giving her the tour. Phyllis ImoriginallyfromTerreHaute continued forward, showing them the maintenance bays where engineers and mechanics would work on her car. The bays were currently empty, but she mentioned they would be filled soon enough.

A wall near the end of the room had big black letters reading "PIT CREW PRACTICE AREA". Her attempt to get a glimpse inside was for naught, Phyllis continuing their walking tour. As she took everything in, the realization hit Kathrin hard. This was real. Holy shit, this was real. It didn't dawn on her the other day, but now it was. She was going to get a chance to race in the Indianapolis 500, and achieve her dreams.

She almost teared up.

"Are you crying!?" Thomas asked.

"It's so beautiful," she said, drinking in all the machinery, tools, and, in one maintenance bay, her car. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!" She walked over to one of her cars, looking showroom new. She knelt, embracing it like a lover. " _Meine Leibe, meine einzige wahre Liebe!"_

"Is she alright?" Phyllis asked.

"She's doing JUST fine," said Thomas. He was doing his best not to laugh, watching her caress the machine. "Oi! Oi!" he walked over to her and pulled her off the car. "Wait until you're alone to do that."

"You're no fun!"

Phyllis took them to the offices, on the second floor, which had a decent overlooking view of the shop are and all its... whiteness. Yes, most of the employees were melanin-challenged, but that was referring to how white the walls and ceilings were painted—

"Katya!"

Spinning around, Kathrin's jaw dropped upon seeing Annie walking up to her in her business suit and skirt, looking extra cute this afternoon. Of course, her amazement at how she looked dissipated quickly. She remembered that she was surprised to see Annie. Even more surprising, without dropping the files she was carrying, Annie lunged at Kathrin, arms wide, and hugged Kathrin.

"Please stop calling me thaaaaat!" Kathrin whined, turning bright red.

"Who's she!?" Thomas asked.

"Oh, that's our new executive assistant, Annie Kruger!" said Phyllis.

"Executive... assistant?" Kathrin asked, dumbfounded.

"Can you believe it?" asked Annie.

"She's graduating with a business degree from Butler—"

"I know that!" Kathrin interrupted.

"But your agent doesn't," said Phyllis.

"You know her?" Thomas asked, not angry.

"Katya and I went to school together!" Annie answered proudly.

"Katya?" Thomas asked. Annie pointed at Kathrin.

"I knew she was here in Indianapolis," said Kathrin. "I ran into her last night."

"Oh, that's nice to know!" said Phyllis.

"But I wish she told me she was working here."

"Then it wouldn't be a surprise," said Annie. Kathrin visibly didn't agree with that reasoning, giving her friend a disappointed glance, feeling like Annie didn't trust? Respect her enough? She couldn't think of the right way to describe how she felt at the moment, just disappointed. She also wanted to confront Annie about this, but Phyllis, Thomas, _and_ Annie were already walking away.

"Oi! What are you waiting for?" Thomas laughed.

"Coming!"

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The local media arrived at around 2:30 PM, local time. Three vans from local TV stations pulled into the parking lot, unloaded their equipment, and walked inside. Kathrin watched, interested. Yes, the reporter lady from Channel 13 was obviously the prettiest, but Channel 6's had some _je ne sais quois_ , maybe a—

"They're married," Hans whispered in her ear. Her mischievous grin turned upside down, and she stepped away from the main entrance so she wouldn't have to let them see her disappointment. But when they walked in the door, she was shocked—one of them didn't have a wedding ring! She turned to glare at Hans, but he was already ahead of her, gripping her shoulder tight, leading her away from the news crews, so everything could get set up. As that was happening, Ken Starr of the _Indianapolis Star_ also entered the building, meeting and greeting with some of the assembled media.

Mr. Großkreutz came into the main entrance, wearing a nice suit, and greeted the gathered reporters. They set up their cameras and microphone stand just off to the side from the entrance, in front of a large banner with the correct spelling for Großkreutz Autosport, a no-frills logo consisting entirely of the name "Großkreutz" in big block letters and "Autosport" in cursive. Some members of the team—she, Hans, Martin Goldberg, her other crew chief, Head of Racing Operations Jakob Senger, Pavel Frankowski, the team's COO, and Mr. Großkreutz--gathered under the banner to pose for photographs and footage for the news crews. This was the boring part, she knew, but part of the racing business, so she had to look nice for the cameras.

Mr Großkreutz stepped forward to the podium. " _Guten tag, und_ _Willkommen_ ," he said. "Thank you all for coming today. I just have a few things to say. I would like to thank Mayor Hogsett for the welcome to Indianapolis, and Mr. George and Mr. Miles for the opportunity to compete." There was a small smattering of applause. "It is an honor and a privilege to have the opportunity to compete in one of the most prestigious races in the world. I know we have not qualified yet, but I have a lot of confidence in our team, and our driver." he turned to Kathrin, nodding, and turned back to the press.

"Currently, of course, our main objective is to qualify for, and win, the Indianapolis 500, but IndyCar gave us permission to race the entire season, starting with the Grand Prix of Indianapolis," he continued. "I know that IndyCar is not as highly regarded as it used to be, but that makes no difference. Getting the opportunity to race for a series with such incredible history is more than enough. And now, Kathrin, if you would like to speak?"

Kathrin had been staring at Annie while she stood off to the side, next to the camera crews. In the bright light of the day, and with a clear head, Kathrin could not believe that she had grown up so much. She appeared so mature now, even though they were the same age. She was also very, very pretty, and pretty cute. Kathrin couldn't help herself gazing at her, but as far as she knew, Annie was straight, but that's not the entire point. She wanted to be angry at her, but the undeniable fact that she was her own woman, with her own life, and probably didn't need to tell her anything hit like a knife swipe in the abdomen—Painful, but skin-deep and quick. Maybe she would have to have a conversation with her—

"KATHRIN!"

They were laughing at her, and she deserved it, she understood, for spacing out like that. As she stepped forward, Thomas handed her a piece of paper. Prepared remarks. That's part of the job.

She stepped to the microphones, opened her prepared remarks, and showed them to the camera crews, so they would know. "Hello, I'm Kathrin Müller. Thank you all for coming today. I have been working towards the opportunity to race at Indianapolis most of my adult life. As a child, I did spend time in America, but I sadly never got to go to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I am excited for this opportunity and determined to make the most of it. I know that there will be concerns about my performance, but I want it to be known that I will race to the best of my abilities. Thank you all." The gathered press and employees applauded, then it was turned over to the press to ask questions.

The first questions were all standard questions the press asks any driver; How did the car feel, will you need to make any adjustments going forward, what was going through your mind during your laps, did you find oval racing to be easier or harder than you expected, et cetera, et cetera. For her part, Kathrin answered them in a neutral tone, with neutral words spattered in, like, "I think", "You know," "Well see what happens going forward", and such. Athletes keep a neutral tone during interviews to prevent their opponents from figuring out their strategies, or to get in their head. But sometimes an athlete's true feelings or thoughts will burst to the surface, especially in emotionally-charged moments (Hi, Richard Sherman!). In fact, that very thing was about to happen.

"There have been unconfirmed reports that you were in a minor confrontation with Kevin Disney the other day," said Ken Starr. "Did he say anything to you?"

Kathrin smirked. "He told me to stay out of his way on the track," she said. "I've dealt with people like him, and I think I can beat him any day, in any race. He needs to stay out of my way."

"Mr. Grosskreutz, your thoughts?" asked Starr.

Mr. Grosskreutz stepped up to the microphones. "We look forward to competing against Mr. Disney and his team," he said. "We do have our own targets in terms of progress as a team, but I think using Mr. Disney and his team as one of those targets could help." He turned, grinned at Kathrin, and patted her on the back. She smiled, happy that her team owner supported her.

"Now, if you do not have any other questions, how about we give you the tour?"

There were no more questions, so Mr. Grosskreutz proceeded to show them on the tour. He showed them the offices, including his (and the nutcracker collection he'd brought over from Munich), the break room, the strategy room, and the door to the simulator room. He joked that he would have to kill them if he showed them the actual simulator.

The tour of the shop floor was quick because he wasn't big on the technical side of motorsport. But he did show them the pit crew practice area and promised a demonstration, also to let the new pit crew practice its craft before the cameras.

Before long, Kathrin was in her car, waiting for the signal to drive into the area meant to mimic the pit area of an oval track, complete with a pit wall. Martin waited at the right-front, across from another crew member. A third member waited where the left-rear tire would go, with two crew members waiting next to them, one holding another tire, the other holding a hose with a long metal rod attached to the end. In between the two tire changers on the left side was another crew member holding a long fueling hose.

Martin waved his left arm. Kathrin drove into the pit crew (not... literally...) and they went right to work. The gasman plugged the fuel hose into the fueling port, jackman inserted the air hose into a nozzle in the rear of the car, activating the car's built-in air jacks, pushing the car up above the ground. Immediately, Martin and the left-front tire changer went to work. The rear tire changers, having already ran to the back of the car, did so likewise, almost simultaneously. The air guns screamed, removing the lug nut from each tire. The tire changers removed the tires, replacing them, and tightened the lug nuts. Then the jackman pulled the air hose out of the nozzle in the rear of the car, while Martin held up his hand, keeping Kathrin from pulling away as the gasman did his thing. Then the gasman removed the hose, Martin signaled for her to go, and that was it.

Hans stopped his stopwatch. "Eight seconds!" he proudly declared, drawing a round of applause. "We have a lot of work to do, but that's a good start."

Satisfied, Kathrin emerged from the car to shake hands with her crewmembers. " _Wunderbar!_ " she declared. Instinctively, her attention turned to Annie, standing off to the side, holding her materials. Before she knew it, she was walking over to her old friend, ignoring the press and gathered team members.

"Kathrin?" she asked. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Kathrin answered. "I'm just... surprised you're here."

Annie giggled. "Then it was a good surprise."

"Ja, ja, a good surprise," said Kathrin.

Annie frowned, seeing that Kathrin was visibly conflicted about her presence. She'd applied for the job with Grosskreutz two months ago, knowing that they were coming to America, excited to see Kathrin again. It would be just like old times, except that it didn't seem to be. Was Kathrin angry at her for getting a job with her team? No, that couldn't be it. Kathrin was thrilled for her, she knew it, and her smile made Annie's heart skip a beat. But it was painfully clear that wasn't it. She suspected correctly from the look in her eyes that she was hurt, and wished she'd kept in contact with her. But she had her own life, and own circle of friends at Butler, and she didn't think telling Kathrin every little thing was worth the effort.

She reached out, touching Kathrin's arm, and smiled at her. For a moment, Kathrin's visible hurt dissipated, and the two old friends were able to silently reconnect for just a moment.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

End chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm using Kathrin as sort of an introduction to the world of IndyCar. Sorry that she hasn't talked much, though.


	7. Wind and Rain

Rain, rain, go away, was the English nursery rhyme. There was no German equivalent, but the boys with Honda, her engine provider, were probably singing that right now.

A drab gray had settled over Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Kathrin buried herself in her jacket, coffee in hand, watching the rain underneath suites hanging over along pit road, in front of a garage and in a pit area that she hoped/suspected Michael Schumacher and Ferrari used when they raced here. Come the 500, temporary bleachers will be here, to hold some of the many thousands expected on Race Day.

Today, the only people at the track were the drivers and other members of the Honda teams, including hers. Chevy teams had won the Grand Prix of Indianapolis—run on the IMS infield road course originally built for the F1 US Grand Prix the track hosted from 2000 to 2007, but slightly re-configured after the disastrous 2005 event—three years in a row.

If only they’d brought enough rain tyres for an eight-hour test!

The coffee was... alright. It came from a café near the track called “McDonald’s”. Honestly, she’d never had coffee from the Golden Arches, and it was... alright. Nothing to write home about. Definitely better than the “food”. It did do its job, waking her up and keeping her warm on a chilly, rainy Tuesday, waiting to get back in her car for the first time in a week. Why didn’t IndyCar have a race in the final week of April? These Americans made no sense. It could be worse, of course, but her tapping foot telegraphed to everyone that she wanted to drive and go vroom.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Driver’s peripheral vision, about as close to a rabbit’s as a human can get. It was just some dude walking past, a member of another team.

Bored, she pulled out her phone, opened Instagram, clicked the “+” button, and took a selfie of herself looking away from the camera, but out at the track. She posted the selfie with a “Hefe” filter with the caption “At the track, #grinding.” Immediately, her notifications started blowing up, her fans excited to see some social media content. Some of the likes and comments even came from drivers she knew were at the track, _because she had just seen them earlier_. Okay, the most obvious reason for that was they were just as bored as she was and happened to be on their phones as well.

… Wait, some of them had social media teams.

Several more moments passed, and the rain didn’t let up. Huffing, she walked back towards Gasoline Alley, and her garage by extension.

Hans oversaw the crew making some minor adjustments to the engine, but from his stance, he looked ready to spring into action if he saw anyone make an adjustment he didn’t like. Kathrin chuckled, rubbing her hand through her short hair.

“I’ll call you when I need you,” he told her without taking his eyes of the car. She closed her eyes and sighed through her nose. She’d _been_ waiting!

Boredom was the enemy. It was an insidious enemy, dulling everything around her.

“Actually, I do need to talk to you.”

Her heart stopped. Had she done something wrong? He sounded serious. Ignoring the knot in her chest, she walked slowly back to Hans, averting her eyes from his surprisingly amused expression. “Am I in trouble?” she asked.

“Of course not!” he laughed. “I just wanted to explain the tyres.” She released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. He took two F*restone tyres, one solid black, the other had a red band around the perimeter, and displayed them both for her to see. “The black tyres are the primaries. These are used everywhere, and are very durable, but slow on road courses. The red tyres are alternates. They’re faster but wear out quicker than the black tyres. These are only used on road and street courses.”

“Oh,” said Kathrin. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it depends on the track,” said Hans. “I would rather we start with the black tyres, then switch to reds later in the races, so we can get better track position. That, of course, is up to you. Do you have any other questions?”

“How much push-to-pass do I get?”

“In a road course race, you get ten, ten-second bursts of 50 horsepower to pass,” he answered. “Is that all you need to know?”

“That is all,” she said.

“Alright,” said he. He paused, looking downward, biting his lip, then returned his gaze to her. “You have been avoiding Annie lately. Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” she answered instinctively. Oh no, she was not in love with Annie, even though she wished straight women like her could love lesbians. No, the issue was that she was upset that Annie, despite not having spoken to her for 4 years, showed up, back in her life, expecting things to be the same, and she felt deceived for some reason, even though she knew she should be thrilled for her. But it still stung, and she didn’t know how to say that to Annie without coming across as a jerk or selfish.

“Are you sure?” Hans asked. “Because, like I said, you’ve been avoiding her. Are you angry with her about—”

“It’s nothing!” she laughed, a loud, fake laugh that caught the crew’s attention for just a second before they returned their attention to working on the car. “I should… see if I can meet the other drivers.”

Sighing, Hans made a gesture of defeat. “Do what you want but be ready to—Damn.” She’d already left the garage.

 _She_ let out a long, relieved sigh, hoping to get far away.

She didn’t get far, because she noticed two men, talking to each other, walking towards her. At first, she didn’t think too much about it, but as they got closer, she could see one of them was blond, the other dark haired. The blond one wore yellow leggings, the dark-haired one wore blue. Her eyes widened, realizing who was coming towards her; 2014 500 winner Ryan Hunter-Reay, and 2016 winner Alexander Rossi, both of Andretti Autosport.

Immediately, she straightened her posture, looking away, hiding how excited she was, lest she look like a fangirl. They passed by, but Hunter-Reay stopped in his tracks, pointing at her. Rossi also stopped, waiting for Hunter-Reay. She pretended she just noticed them, looking up from her coffee. “You’re... you’re Kathrin Muller, right?” Hunter-Reay finally asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Oh, I thought you looked familiar,” Hunter-Reay continued. “Sorry. I’m Ryan Hunter-Reay. And this is Alexander Rossi.” He extended his hand, she shook it.

“Yes, I know who you are,” she answered. Hunter-Reay chuckled, but Rossi shrugged.

“So, uh, you here for the Honda test, too?” Hunter-Reay asked.

“Ja, ja,” she answered. “I just wish... we had rain tyres.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” said Hunter-Reay. “So, uh, how are you liking Indy so far?”

“The racing?”

“Oh, sorry, I meant the city,” said Hunter-Reay.

“Oh. Oh, I like it. I live downtown, at Penn Street Towers.”

“Don’t think I’ve heard of it,” said Hunter-Reay. “Is it nice?”

“Ja, it’s very nice,” she replied.

“So, uh, you’re just jumping in the season?” Rossi asked.

“Ja, I couldn’t enter until last week,” she answered. _ASK THEM SOMETHING!_ She told herself. “So, um... do you know Kevin Disney?” _Seriously? That’s what you’re going to ask them? Dummkopf._

“Do we know Kevin Disney?” Hunter-Reay asked, turning to Rossi.

Rossi shrugged. “Not really.”

“Yeah, not really,” said Hunter-Reay.

“Well, actually, that’s, that’s because he lives in Chicago—”

“Oh, yeah.”

“... And his team is in Chicago...”

“That too.”

“... And most of us live here in Indy—well, except for the Penske guys, they’re out in North Carolina.”

“Oh, okay,” said Kathrin. She didn’t want to mention the dust-up with him.

“If you really need to stay away from anyone, it’s Barrichello,” said Rossi. “I mean, he’s the _meanest_ , and I hear even his teammates hate him.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame them,” said Hunter-Reay. Kathrin couldn’t tell if they were telling the truth, only because she’d seen Barrichello race, but had yet to meet him. But she did have to admit there had to be a grain of truth in their assessment, since they knew Barrichello themselves.

“What about Disney?” she asked.

“Just do your own thing,” said Hunter-Reay.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about him,” said Rossi. “Everyone here just, like, does their thing, and most of the time, it doesn’t really matter what someone else thinks.”

“But if some criticism gets to you, make sure you can find a therapist or sports psychologist,” said Hunter-Reay. “And don’t read online criticism.”

“I’m already good at that,” Kathrin remarked. Yes, she knew about some of the things said about her online.

“But that doesn’t mean don’t listen to any criticism,” said Rossi. “Like, constructive criticism.”

“Oh, ja, I can do that,” she said.

“We should… probably be going,” said Rossi. Hunter-Reay concurred with Rossi. She shook their hands, shared a good luck wish with them, and watched as they went off on their way. Then she sighed, relieved that they didn’t judge her.

But when they were out of hearing, Hunter-Reay turned to Rossi and said, “Is it just me, or is she obsessed with Disney?”

“Well, he’s not the best at first impressions,” Rossi replied. “Kid’s got a chip on his shoulder.”

“He’s 22,” said Hunter-Reay. “And can you believe the pressure on him? With that, and how Barrichello picks on him, I don’t blame him for being so prickly.”

“Yeah, his dad needs to back off,” said Rossi. “Still don’t like him.”

“Who? Tom or Kevin?”

“Kevin.”

“Ah,” said Hunter-Reay. “By the way, do you think she’s a—”

“Lesbian?” Rossi turned around to look. “Definitely.”

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

“OI! I brought lunch!” a crewmember announced, walking into the garage holding a lot of paper bags. “Mug-n-Bun!”

Imagining kissing and c*ddling with a pretty girl, Kathrin jumped from her seat on the car’s sidepod, then sighed. The girl in her mind was as old as she was, like the footballer she dated once. The closest thing to an actual long-term relationship was with a woman in her mid-30s. It was more of an initiation, if you could call it that, as the older woman mentored her, taught her the ins and outs of lesbian culture and sex, before it ended. Kathrin was only 18 and 19 at the time, did not have sex with the older woman, but learned a lot. Some LGBT youths will have older mentors. The footballer, from Bayern’s women’s team, was supposed to be her first real, _real_ girlfriend. Turns out, having a race on the same day she had a match was just the tip of the iceberg. Didn’t mean the sex was awful, though.

She picked out her bag, the one with “KATYA” written in sharpie. She glared at the team member who delivered the food but dropped it at once. She pulled the food out. Fish and chips. The restaurant he ordered from was one of those greasy, high-calorie fast-food places Americans frequented. To be fair, Germany wasn’t saintly when it came to food. She did have to admit that these fish and chips looked much better than the literal slop she’d had in England. Fish and chips in Germany were more… refined.

She took a bite, realizing she was starting to get homesick. It was greasy, but when has fish and chips ever not been greasy? What mattered was, it tasted good, and she sighed, closing her eyes. She daydreamed again, thinking of girls she’d dated, fucked, or wanted to love, including Annie. Yeah, like that will ever happen. She still needed to go to one of Indy’s _actual_ gay bars, meet actual lesbians.

Curiously, at the same time, Annie was distracted from her work at the office, wondering why Katya kept looking at her like that.

The sound of knocking brought them back to the real world. “HEY!” said the Honda racing rep, “Rain’s clearing up, we can run soon.”

The crew collectively cheered with their mouths full, then went back to eating. While they were in no rush or hurry, they still quickened their lunch. Kathrin didn’t bother, keeping her seat on the back of the car behind the roll hoop, like she was posing for a photo. What are you talking about? She’s always this photogenic!

But they made her get off the car, so they could roll it out to the pit lane. She lingered in the garage, so she could eat her fish and chips. While she lingered, she examined a map of the speedway’s road course. Going clockwise, the first turn was a sharp, 90-degree right-hander that led into a short straight, then a less-sharp 90-degree turn 2. That led into a sweeping turn three, a sort-of-sharp turn 4, and turns 5 and 6 might as well have been a chicane, a quick left-and-right-hander, leading to the long straight along Hulman Boulevard.

Then came a 90-degree turn 7, left-handed, then a right-handed 8th turn, and a left-handed 9th turn. Turn 10 was a sharp right-hander that swept out into a straight, then the sweeping turn 11 that led back onto the south short chute. But unlike the Formula 1 course that contributed to the disastrous 2005 USGP, turn 12 took them off the oval course, and a sharp left-handed turn 13, then a sweeping 14th turn that brought them back onto the long front straight, crossing the line of bricks.

She followed the track map with her finger once, then again, looking for spots to overtake, and how to attack the corners. With turn one, she would have to go all the way to the outside, then dive into that turn, so she wouldn’t have to brake so hard.

Before heading out, she checked Instagram again, even sneaking a peak at Team Disney’s account. No, she wasn’t obsessed! Their team was doing some road course practice at a track near Chicago. Just to be a little petty, she left a “clowns” comment on a picture of Marcus Williams, Kevin Disney and Sebastien Deschamps hamming it up before their session. Then, she put her phone away and went to the bathroom before starting her session, just to be safe.

The smell of ethanol and engine parts struck her the moment she emerged from Gasoline Alley. The teams and cars were lined up on the pit road, facing north, getting in last-minute preparations. There was the blue-and-orange colored car of legend Scott Dixon, and her heart rate accelerated. A couple of pits down sat Hunter-Reay's yellow-and-red, and Alex Rossi’s blue-and-yellow Andretti cars. They didn’t make her heart accelerate, but when she caught a glimpse of Michael Andretti, her heart skipped a beat.

Yes, she’s a lesbian, but it’s the same reaction anyone would have if they were in the company of famous people.

Her car sat in a pit stall near the end of the lane, and her crew were waiting there for her. Hans greeted her by handing her helmet, fire hood and HANS device to her, then giving her a fist-bump. Then she donned her equipment, stepped over the wall, and slipped into the car with some aid from the crew. Once she was buckled in, she waited while they revved up the car’s engine. A crewmember gave her the signal, and she started the motor. Its loud roar made her heart skip a beat. _Oh, baby, you sound SO GOOD_ , she thought.

She waited a little longer as the track official held his hand out, keeping her in the pit, as the sound of engines starting echoed in the canyon of the front stretch. Looking to her left, she saw several cars go by. Then, she saw the official waving to her, letting her go next. Immediately, she pressed the throttle, bursting out of the pit, merging into traffic behind a green-and-white car, following that driver off the pitlane, and onto the course. Since she was coming off pit lane, the first turn wasn’t as hard, either on the brakes or the wheel, but turn two kept her sharp, then turn three, heading northeast, all while she accelerated to near race speed. Turn 4, changing her direction south, made her slow down, and the short acceleration between turns 4 and 5 made it feel like she was still on pit road.

But once on Hulman Boulevard going south, she increased the throttle. The wind now roared as the car screamed down the straightaway, getting closer to race speed as she upshifted to get to gear 5, hitting her top speed for the circuit, 180 MPH. For a moment, she felt free—

Then she had to brake and make the hard left at turn 6 and navigate the following esses; left, right, left, right, then a quick bend, if you could call it that, a straight, and a hard-ish right-hander that brought her back onto the oval, the south short chute, to be specific. She made a quick burst of speed, then a hard brake into the right angle, right-handed turn that brought her back onto the road course portion. There was one more hard turn, then the sweeping turn 14, allowing her to upshift and accelerate, bursting onto the long frontstretch.

She tore down the straight, wind blowing all around her. Her face muscles acted on their own, and she smiled beneath her helmet, heart racing and tightening in her chest. There was a car ahead of her, getting closer. Being the faster car, she passed it on the outside with little effort, dove into turn 1, cutting off the driver behind her. He’d already caught up to her—no surprise, that happens in the turns, but he almost T-boned her.

“ _Careful!”_ Hans snapped over the radio.

“Sorry.”

But this was her first time making the turn, and she’d waited until almost the very end of the marked track to turn. It was an experiment. To her disappointment, she went too wide into the first turn, missing the kerb on the inside, the car on her right easily making the turn. But she also found herself on the inside of turn number two, giving her the advantage there. The other driver hung around in turns three and four, but his attempt to pass fell short as Kathrin exploded out of turn 4, racing (heh) away from the car behind her. Grinning, she watched as the shape of the car minimized in her rear-view mirror.

Another car appeared in her vision, slowing down as he (and it was almost certainly a he) ducked into the next turn after the long straight. She checked her steering wheel. Still 10 push-to-pass opportunities, but was it a good idea to use it now? She could just follow him, stay in his slipstream and get closer, _then_ use push-to-pass. That thought momentarily left her mind as she slowed down and dove into the next turn after the long drive. This part of the course was a little tricky, but she kept the car on the inside of each 90-degree turn, to get through each turn as fast as possible.

Meanwhile, the car in front of her kept his distance. Passing cars this far ahead was hard, as she’d learned many times before, and this was looking like no exception. It wasn’t that he was slower than her, or she was just faster, it was because he was navigating the course like an expert. He probably was, but she didn’t give a flying fuck.

Returning to the front stretch, she upshifted and pressed hard on the throttle. She could just barely hear the wind roaring around her. She felt herself being pushed against her seat, her hands hurting from holding the steering wheel so hard. In fact, her gloves already felt drenched from all the sweat. They probably weren’t, but they sure felt that way!

She almost overran turn 1 but slowed down and steered in time. She caught a glimpse of whom it was as he turned in front of her. The car was blue and orange. Scott Dixon.

She bit her lip and then grinned. She pressed the pedal even harder now (but did shift and brake in the turns), aggressively charging at Dixon. The man had won the IndyCar championship 5 times. She didn’t fear him, he was a target. And he used to be sponsored by T@rget, so T@rget was her target!

Her car crept closer and closer to him over the next 4 laps. She got the car through the turns as fast and meticulous as she could, and went all-out on the Hulman Blvd and front straights. This strategy got her into his slipstream, which helped her get closer faster. The distance between the two shrank and shrank and shrank, until finally, she was right behind him as they exited turn 14 onto the front straightaway.

As soon as they exited the turn, she kept the car tight on the right side. Judging by what she could see as he went to the outside, the front of her wing could’ve scooped up his right rear tyre. Pressing the “OT” button, she passed the 5-time champion as they raced down the front stretch, crossed the finish line, and approached the first turn. Hoping to get through the first turn as fast as she had been, she moved the car to the outside.

But she could just barely see Dixon nudging his way to get even with her out of her peripheral. And her spotter confirmed it. With no other option, she hit the brakes and turned the wheel HARD to the right. To her relief, the car didn’t drive off the track, hitting the kerb instead. Simultaneously, she pulled ahead of Dixon entering and exiting the turn. He managed to regain some ground on turn two, but the next two turns were right-handers, and since she was still on the inside, her car inched forward, and she managed to exit 4 ahead of Dixon. She smirked as she watched his car shrink in her rear-view.

She grinned and giggled. The steering had been on point, and the car responded to every press of the throttle. It wasn’t like the awkward First Time, trying to find the right buttons to press, or looking for the spots that would make the other woman moan. No, this was the Second Time, where she knew what the other woman liked and wanted.

 _That’s it, scream for me, girl,_ she thought as she brought the car onto the front stretch for what must have been the 12th lap in the session. It did indeed scream down the straight, passing two slower cars on both the left and the right. So far, her transition to IndyCar was going smoother than expected.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Not much to say about this, to be honest. Layout of the IMS road course available [here](http://indymotorspeedway.com/500maps.html).


End file.
